December 29th, 2005
Generally, anyone who has ever spoken to me knows that I believe Hollywood to be a den full of whores and thieves who would pay Adolph Hitler $20 million a picture if he could guarantee a $50 million opening weekend. In particular, 2005 was a terrible year for movies, bloated with big box office spectaculars that I didn’t even bother to see, no matter how good anyone said they were. In general, my idea of entertainment doesn’t involve paying $15 a ticket to see a monkey running around Skull Island for three hours while sipping wine at the Arclight. There’ s nothing wrong with liking those things per se and blockbusters can be enjoyable, but it seems that as the Hollywood studios consolidate, they are increasingly becoming risk-averse and taking chances on movies that are true works of art. So perhaps it’s fitting that the only decent movies that seem to be getting made today are independent productions that are filmed on a shoe-string budget and screened at film festivals across the globe, with the film’s producers vainly trying to land a distribution deal. Many of these Indie films only elitist and generally much too esoteric for their own good (just because a film plays at the Laemmle does not mean it’s deep), but every now and then a truly great one comes along, the kind of movie that you’ll praise to anyone you ever meet and beg them to see. The last truly brilliant movie I remember that fit this description was “Eternal Sunshine For The Spotless Mind,” but now, there’s another one to add to the Passion of the Weiss canon: “The Squid and The Whale.”
Debuting in the middle of October in a few selected cities, the film which was made for $1.5 million (practically unheard of by today’s standards) has grossed barely over $4 million. Consequently, as no studio would ever have the brains to touch a film so unflinchingly honest and intelligent, this film has essentially gone unmarketed and except for a handful of “intellectuals” and film critics, practically no one has seen it. And at first, despite the raves of people whose critical tastes I respected (shouts goes-out to Jon “Fish Out of Water in Shark City” Caren), I couldn’t bring myself to watch the film. After all, it was written and directed by Noah Baumbach, the person who had collaborated with Wes Anderson to produce “The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou,” which might be the most disappointing movie that I’ ve ever ever seen. But I’m thankful that I got over my own biases towards seeing the movie, as it’s my pick for 2005’s Movie of the Year.
Chronicling the tale of a family in Brooklyn in the mid-1980s getting ripped apart by divorce, “The Squid and The Whale,” is a must-see for anyone whose childhood might not have been candy-cane perfect (read: practically everyone.) The film features a ludicrously good performance by Jeff Daniels in what is likely going to shape up as the performance of his lifetime (yes…It is better than his role in Dumb and Dumber…which I might add is also a very excellent performance). Daniels plays the cinematic alter-ego of small-time novelist Jonathan Baumbach (Noah’s father) as he loses control of his career and his marriage when his wife, played by Laura Linney (also amazing in her role), begins having torrid affairs with a series of men and begins having literary success of her own.
But the meat of the film concentrates on the aftermath of the divorce and the psychological havoc that it wreaks on their two children. Perhaps the most outstanding part about the work is that rather than wallow in the pain and trauma of divorce it manages to address the subject with depth and humor. It brings out deep emotions in any viewer, but never manages to depress you, as you’re too busy laughing at the pretension and absurdly large egos of the main characters to even notice how sad the story really is. There are so many incredible things about this movie that I could point out, but then I’d be ruining the surprise in seeing a movie for the first time. This movie might not change your life, but it certainly will give you pause about your interactions with others and allow you to assess yourself with a level of measured introspection (at least it did for the bloated ego of this young pseudo-scribe). So please go see this movie. You won’t be disappointed. It is without a doubt the movie of this year and to be honest, probably of nearly any year.
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December 23rd, 2005
Since I’m the only one in America actually working today, I feel compelled to post some holiday stocking stuffers for my readers (I’m so festive it’s truly extraordinary). Hopefully, I’ll be able to unleash some of my trademark venom (or evil, if you want to be a dick about it) later, but for now, these stories should suffice.
Osama Bin Laden’s Niece: Just admit it guys, you’d go to Jihad with her any day of the week.
Proving once again that the only true religion in Los Angeles is paying outlandish amounts of money to be trendy for approximately 15 minutes.
Good for you teenagers of America, who needs cigarettes when Oxycontin is available?
Repeat after me: any story that involves an Estonian accordianist winning a Santa Claus of the Year Contest is hilariously funny.
Strangely enough, top brass in the Bush administration also had similar experiences in childhood.
Note to Coldplay: You will never be The Beatles. Consider yourself lucky if you are regsrded as highly as the Monkees.
Rivers, have you ever considered the fact that the last decent song you ever wrote was when you were…yeah…well…not being a complete celibate freak-show. Just asking.
America takes another heaping helping of gay cowboy. Sequel enters pre-production.
Unsurprisngly, the only person with enough balls to criticize Brokeback is openly gay actor, Nathan Lane. Nathan Lane suddenly becomes deeply okay in my book.
Yeah, this is a huge surprise (as my voice drips with sarcasm)
Can we please impose a moratorium on anyone thinking Jeremy Piven is cool. Because he sucks. He really really sucks.
War on Christmas? Are people that fucking stupid? And then I think of Paris Hilton and understand that yes, people really are that dumb.
Somehow, I’m pretty certain that Cheaper by the Dozen 2 doesn’t have a “clever script.” Call me crazy.
Back To The Future 4? Suddenly, suicide becomes a slightly less palatable option. There is a reason to live. Happy Christmas!
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December 20th, 2005
Iran’s new president has been in the news quite a bit since he took office in August, which is surprising since his name is Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, which last time I checked didn’t exactly roll off the tongue. Why he didn’t change his name to Mark Adams or something similarly easy to pronounce is beyond me. After all, it worked so well for young Robert Zimmerman. C’mon Mahmoud, marketing is everything, haven’t you read “How to Win Friends and Influence People.”
He obviously isn’t much on self-help books, because since taking office this summer the always wacky Mahmoud has made some bold and catchy statements claiming that the “holocaust is a myth” and that the state of “Israel needed to be wiped off the map.” Oh Mahmoud, you lovable and irascible rogue, what will you do or say next? He’s like your cranky cantankerous grandpa who will say anything for a laugh and to get attention, except that he probably possesses a full scale-nuclear arsenal which he is aching to use…Details, details.
But obviously, my boy Mahmoud has been reading the Passion of the Weiss. And though he’s always making crazy comments, like the time he called me a Zionist infidel (god he’s so hilarious), I’ve always known that if anything Mahmoud “Bad Mothafucka” Ahmadinejad seeks my advice on every ultra-conservative decision. Clearly, my rants on the atrocity that is Western popular music has really resonated with my man Mahmoud because according to this CNN article, he’s decided to ban all Western Music in the state of Iran. This decree came in with the advent of the Iranian Revolution in 1979, but has been rarely enforced in recent years. According to the article:
“Songs such as George Michael’s “Careless Whisper,” Eric Clapton’s “Rush” and the Eagles’ “Hotel California” have regularly accompanied Iranian broadcasts, as do tunes by saxophonist Kenny G.”
No wonder he’s so agitated. Look at the complete dreck that somehow passes for music in Iran. George Michael? Clapton-lite? “Hotel California,” the only question is why haven’t we done this in America. In fact, I’m voting for Mahmoud whatever the fuck his name is as a write-in-candidate in the next election for California governor. God knows he certainly couldn’t be worse than Arnold “I’ve Never Met a Man I Couldn’t Kill” Schwarzenegger or whatever flamingly liberal retard the Democrats march up to the slaughter.
But apparently, the people of Iran wouldn’t know good music or art if it went up to them and smacked them upside the head (or turban, depending on their level of religious observance), because apparently they’re up in arms about this wonderful move.
“This president speaks as if he is living in the Stone Age. This man has to understand that he can’t tell the people what to listen to and what not to listen to,” said Mohammed Reza Hosseinpour as he browsed through a Tehran music shop.”
Hey, Mohammed. What’s with all this talk about civil liberties and free will? If you wanted civil liberties so badly, why didn’t you just move to Beverly Hills like every other Persian I know and erect a hideously ugly faux-Grecian temple side by side to a quaint 1920s Spanish style home? Buy a fucking clue.
And then there’s Pari Mahmoudi and his well-articulated views on schmaltzy 1970s FM radio classics.
“Don’t take this man (Ahmadinejad) seriously,” said Pari Mahmoudi, a teen driving in the capital, as the Eagles’ “Hotel California” blared from the car speakers.
Oh, Pari Mahmoudi, you wild little rapscallion, you and your Eagles. I remember your Emerson, Lake and Palmer phase like it was yesterday.
So if you’re keeping a scorecard of these developments (which I assume you are) it breaks down like this: Iranian People + No Music=No Likey. Jeff Weiss+ Mahmoud Ahmadinejad + No Music= Bad Mothafucka!
My next plea for our dear leader is to wield influence among the musical preferences of the members of the vast Persian diaspora. Can we get some kind of moratorium on Persian guys in BMW’s bumping Euro-trash techno songs at full volume through Beverly Hills and West Hollywood? C’mon Mahmoud, show me how powerful you really are. Be a man. Outlaw “Zombie Nation,” and you will have a legacy that can extend throughout history, time and space.
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December 16th, 2005
Every week, I save a bunch of articles that I consider blogging about, but many of them don’t make the cut. Starting this Friday, I’m going to institute a segment called Loose Ends that post links to these weird, funny, or frighteningly insipid articles.
This article discusses how bats with bigger brains generally have smaller testicles. This, of course, would explain the Democratic Party.
Once again, repeat after me, hipsters are complete tools.
Madonna has a new song, claiming that if she were a man, she’d be the president. No, Madonna, if you were a man and therefore couldn’t fuck your way to the top, you’d be an insurance salesmen in Reseda. Buy a fucking clue.
People at the top of my list not to take political advice from (in order): Artists, Hipsters, George Bush.
New Yorkers: Definitely just as stupid as Angelenos. And somehow even more pretentious.
Bulgaria+Gays+Soccer= Obviously Funny
And people wonder why no one likes the Jews.
Sorry, guys. Jesus will NEVER be way cool. Unless he starts smoking lots of weed and listening to only 50 Cent. At which point, he will be very fucking cool.
That’s it. I’m converting. First person to convince me to join their religion gets the rights to my soul for eternity.
This story is really everything wrong with American society. Really. Read it and weep my friends. The American dream is dead.
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December 8th, 2005
Suddenly and violently, I’ve been struck by the most grotesque episode of depression known to man. Don’t chalk this up as mere melodrama. It’s serious and very real and very painful. And don’t try to tell me that things are going to get better because they won’t. My depression has a serious root cause and it’s one that can’t be immediately cured. It’s not a death in the family, it’s not a serious illness, it’s not even the cancelled marriage of golden literary couple, esteemed scribe Nicole Richie and poet/deity DJ AM. No, in many respects this overwhelming melancholy is far worse: Today, I realized that I am not in anyone’s “Myspace Top 8,” and I never will be.
Some of you totally uncool people might not be familiar with the awe-inspiring social networking phenomenon known as Myspace. So, being the altruistic soul that I am, I’ll fill you in. On Myspace you’re allowing to select a holy octet of souls known as your “Top 8.” Only the most amazing and interesting people can crack the Top 8. Being the competitive person that I am, I’ve been trying heroically for months to be the recipient of such a glorious honor. I’ve bombarded my Myspace friends with subtle comments. I’ve sent them poems, roses, text messages. I even made sure that a couple of my “friends,” woke up with dead horse’s heads beside them, just so that they would get the point. But not even that foolproof scheme worked.
I don’t think people realize what an esteeemed honor it is to be in someone’s Top 8. Most humans just take it for granted. But I promised them that I wouldn’t. I made it clear that being in someone’s Top 8 was a responsiblity that I wouldn’t take lightly. I guaranteed my friends that I’d quit drinking, start running, stop getting falsely arrested for bogus tresspassing charges, but did they listen to me, no!!! No one cares right now! I feel so lost. So hopelessly naive. So very scared.
I can’t begin to express the waves of sorrow currently washing over me. I called in sick to work today and have been locked in my room for the past six hours, chain-smoking and listening to The Cure records over and over again. Let me tell you something, Robert Smith might have been in love on a Friday, but I’m certainly NOT in love on a Thursday. Suicide would be a viable option but I’m too depressed to even care any more. I don’t even care if live or die. Albert Camus was right: suicide IS really the only philosophical debate that matters. Normally, I’d blame my Top 8 absence on Myspace’s insidiousness or everyone else’s stupidity, but that just isn’t the truth. The truth is that I’m just not awesome enough to make anyone’s Top 8.
But wait, I remember a quote from a musician that meant so much to me in the halcyon days of my youth. I will turn to him for inspiration and for salvation. Only he can get me through this black plague. Yes, that’s it. I will turn to the music. I will turn to the music and my art.
“I use the music to vent, and a lot of the stuff that I am writing about or was writing about contained a lot of anger and anxiety, stress and depression, so that’s how the album came out so dark.”
–Vanilla Ice (this is a real quote…seriously)
I will rise from the ashes yet…oh how I will rise.
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December 7th, 2005
Mel Gibson knows Jews like he knows the back of his hand. After all, how else could he have been qualified to have made “The Passion of the Christ,” a film about the most famous Hebrew to ever grace the face of the earth (and no, I’m not talking about Franz Kafka, but good guess).
Now, it seems he’s turning his cinematic attention to another seminal moment in the happy go-lucky history of the Jewish people: the holocaust. Sure all the naysayers want to hate on Mel Gibson and his father Hutton (yes my friends, his father’s name is Hutton) just because good ol’ Hutton has a penchant for making wacky remarks that the Holocaust never happened.
“Mr. Gibson’s father, Hutton Gibson, has repeatedly denied that the Holocaust happened, saying before the release of “Passion of the Christ,” for example, that accounts of the Holocaust were mostly “fiction” and asserting that there were more Jews in Europe after World War II than before. Mel Gibson has declined to disassociate himself clearly from his father’s views, according to Rafael Medoff, director of the David S. Wyman Institute for Holocaust Studies in Melrose Park, Pa., and the author of an annual study of Holocaust denial.”
Apparently, they weren’t able to get a direct quote from Hutton Gibson saying “Holocaust schmolocaust….sure, a couple people died, but that’s what people do, they die. So fucking what?”
Of course, you’re asking yourself, why would a broadcast network want to court controversy by allowing allegedly anti-Semitic Mel Gibson to make a Holocaust film? Naturally, I have an answer and I’ll give you a hint, it involves blood-sucking entertainment executives who would sell their souls in order to avoid living in Agoura-Fucking-Hills.
Quinn Taylor, ABC’s senior vice president in charge of movies for television, acknowledged that the attention-getting value of having Mr. Gibson attached to a Holocaust project was a factor.
“Controversy’s publicity, and vice versa,” Mr. Taylor said.
Now the article claims that a script isn’t expected until spring, but luckily I have obtained an extra top secret sample copy of the script that no one is allowed to read, save for the extremely well-informed readers of the Passion.
Ext—A verdant village in Eastern Europe. Springtime is here in all of its splendor, trains are whizzing by, but mysteriously we cannot see who is riding them, the world seems perfect and golden. The sun is beaming brilliantly on a meadow blooming with outrageous color and light. And we meet JACOB STEINMAN and his friend ARNOLD GOLDFARB. They both wear spiffy well-pressed tuxedos and blinding white smiles. Their grooming is impeccable. JACOB begins speaking to ARNOLD.
Jacob: “So, I’ve been hearing some strange things from my cousins in Germany. They’re telling me that the Nazi’s are slaughtering all of the Jewish people. But I don’t believe it for a minute.”
Arnold: “I don’t blame you. You can’t trust a thing those Jews say. I’m Jewish myself and I don’t trust a damn thing out of my mouth.”
Jacob: “How could that Adolph Hitler kill the Jews. He’s so good-looking with his mustache.”
Arnold: “You can always trust a man with a mustache.”
Jacob: “True story. Let’s get some ice cream.”
Arnold: “My word, that’s a fabulous idea. Let’s never talk about this whole holocaust thing again.”
Jacob: “Indubitably, my friend. Indubitably.”
JACOB and ARNOLD link arms and began skipping off into the sunset to purchase some undoubtedly delicious ice cream cones. Fade out.
And that my friends is a fine Holocaust film. Take note, Hollywood. Take note. History has a new master and his name is Gibson. Mel…Gibson.
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December 1st, 2005
Now I certainly know that I’m not the first one to notice this, but I’ve become convinced that Dick Cheney is the living embodiment of Mr. Burns, and their uncanny resemblance grows more bizarre every single day. Is it really such a stretch of the imagine to picture Cheney stealing candy from a baby and/or “wallowing in his own crapulence.” I think not.
Plus, if you tie in the insatiable urge to promote nuclear power, a Machiavellian controlling streak and an insatiable urge to steal the sun, you’ve really got yourself an eerie coincidence. In fact, I think the entire Bush White House scarily parallels the world of “The Simpsons.”
Mr. Smithers’ Bush counterpart would inevitably be Ken Mehlman, the head of the RNC and a well-noted lackey. Mehlman is also widely, widely “rumored” to be a possible homersexual. Bush’s Simpsonian doppelganger would be Ralph Wiggum. The son of a prominent member of the Springfield/Texas community, Wiggum and Bush are both known to spit proverbs like, “Me fail English? That’s unpossible.” Although prior to finding God and turning his back on Jim Beam, Bush would’ve been Barney Gumbel.
And who would play Donald Rumsfeld…quite easy. Herman, the one-armed owner of the Springfield gun shop. Because we all know that nothing says Donald Rumsfeld more than a slight chemical imbalance and a severe predilection for guns (may or not be true…guns sold separately.)
Naturally, Condoleeza Rice would be played by the comically obese comic book guy. Why, I’m not quite sure? But they certainly both suck and live in fantasies of complete delusion.
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Generally, anyone who has ever spoken to me knows that I believe Hollywood to be a den full of whores and thieves who would pay Adolph Hitler $20 million a picture if he could guarantee a $50 million opening weekend. In particular, 2005 was a terrible year for movies, bloated with big box office spectaculars that I didn’t even bother to see, no matter how good anyone said they were. In general, my idea of entertainment doesn’t involve paying $15 a ticket to see a monkey running around Skull Island for three hours while sipping wine at the Arclight. There’ s nothing wrong with liking those things per se and blockbusters can be enjoyable, but it seems that as the Hollywood studios consolidate, they are increasingly becoming risk-averse and taking chances on movies that are true works of art. So perhaps it’s fitting that the only decent movies that seem to be getting made today are independent productions that are filmed on a shoe-string budget and screened at film festivals across the globe, with the film’s producers vainly trying to land a distribution deal. Many of these Indie films only elitist and generally much too esoteric for their own good (just because a film plays at the Laemmle does not mean it’s deep), but every now and then a truly great one comes along, the kind of movie that you’ll praise to anyone you ever meet and beg them to see. The last truly brilliant movie I remember that fit this description was “Eternal Sunshine For The Spotless Mind,” but now, there’s another one to add to the Passion of the Weiss canon: “The Squid and The Whale.”
