Monday, November 14, 2011

Title Wave

I really had to write something about this movie. It wouldn't go away, it's simply that affecting. And unless you missed the class on sarcasm in junior high, the reason I viewed this trainwreck of a movie- streaming..and in fast-forward- was because my friend D-Gangs made a comment regarding a streaming snafu he experienced: "I was trying to watch the 90's action flick 'Blown Away' starring Jeff Bridges and Tommy Lee Jones on Netflix instant last night, Instead I got a Corey's soft core flick."

What Davey's error meant, was that he sat through some of this:


Nicole Eggert, channeling pre-"Clueless" Alicia Silverstone in 1992. Haim just looks plain stoned.

With this:


In 1994, it was okay to believe that Tommy Lee Jones could passably play an IRA bomber, complete with Irish accent...that he ordered from a box of Lucky Charms. To be fair, Bridges tries to affect his own later in the movie, but it's so bad. Not even "good" bad. SUCKS! Of course, the similarity in the box art could be confusing. Could have been worse...could have been a remake of "Blow Dry"...




I had to...had to write an article




Can you believe we live in a world that shakes it's head collectively when LiLo gets sent to jail for 5 hours? Harder still to believe that, with audiences salivating over the closing saga of "Twilight" and who's team would you be on, young performers were generally relegated to the kind of passing interest that we save for Victoria's Secret ads on the side of a moving bus. Which is to say, rarely were the teens in these movies hung with the microscopic fascination we do these days.




Because for the kajillion boyfriends/best friends in the back ground of a 80's/90's feature film who get quickly forgotten (where- if fate allows- they can reinvent themselves on a successful sit-com television in the 2000's...maybe even an Oscar!) we had a handful of teen heartthrob actrons that spent weeks on the covers of teeny-bopper magazines and seemed, you could believe, that they'd be on top of the world forever! Riding trends, fads, clothing styles, haircuts like they were a luck-dragon...befriending famous pop music stars or professional athletes and directors. Drugged and drunken Tomfoolery was passed off as "exhaustion" and could quickly be glossed over for bigger grown-up stars problems, while Drew Barrymore was posing for Playboy to restore her "cred". (And let's not forget the perpetual f#ck up, Robert D Jr. He had yet to prove his talent and become the shining example of talent and redemption he went on to embody 2, 3, 5 x's over until he was almost washed up. Even River Phoenix had another year left in him)




And then we have the Corey's...His Haimliness and Feldman. And folks, for someone who has a HUGE soft spot for "The Lost Boys", "The Goonies", and even to a lesser extent "License to Drive" and "Dream A Little Dream" (if only because the latter was on HBO in rotation every two hours, you just couldn't get away from it, or from the stupid "James Dean" song from the soundtrack. Or that could just be foreshadowing. Annnnyway)




It's not every day we get a movie that will capture the hubris and downfall of a pair of, if not talented, at least popular actors of their day. If you think about it, the balancing act of hopefulness and reality was petering out at the end of the 80's. The 90's pushed in a major event during the time of this film's release: Sharon Stone's pubic hair. By presenting audiences with hard, violent crime films (not gritty, mind you, unless we're still talking about her merkin) we were shuffling off the teen heart throb image that was so popular in the 80's and looking for real people. (And many of these heart throbs were heading to the small screen anyway.) And let's face it...The Corey's were getting older. And since we were still a minute or two away from the mid-90's that would usher in the quiet "Independent Film Drama" that allowed many "stars" to pursue projects that challenged them as actors, and hopefully created a renaissance for audiences to accept that they could move past their old images.




Except I'm pretty sure these two burn boys just read a draft from their agent which made them think it was all going to be love scenes and 8-balls...Hoooooeeeee. Poor bastards. Where to begin? (It's here that I need to point out that I barely made it past the opening credits before realizing I made a horrible mistake. Since I had a real acting event to attend...you know...a "play"? I ended up fast forwarding it so that it pretty much lasted all of 22 minutes. Still. Too long)




The problem isn't the plot, which is stupid. (17 year old rich girl seduces Haim in order to convince him to kill her dad...when it's implied that her dad may have killed her mom. Feldman is around to trade name-calling with Haim. Nicknames like "clown nuts" and "dick nose". Honestly, this was the dialogue that spoke to me the most, since it's the way I talk to my best friend. Except...you know...we didn't go scouting high school chicks parties when we were 24 years old- I mean did I mention she's supposed to be under-age? And that's a good thing?)




Anyway, what acts as a depressing time-capsule is how both of those dudes, who're at the ripe age of 21 in 1993 (or 1992 when they might've filmed it) looked like 37 year old burn-outs. It doesn't look it...in their body language, interacting with each other as "buds", or when they take their clothes off (which they both do. A lot. As does Ms. Eggert. Which makes it difficult at times to differentiate during the awkward writhing love scenes between she and "The Haim", since he still has that downy physique of a 14 year old anorexic. Here's a hint- she's wearing a gallon of spray tan.) It's just when we first see them try to play themselves out at a party, they invariably do look like the sad older dudes who get up at weddings to dance along with the hip cool sounds of the early 80's while the younger crew waits at the corner of the dance floor staring stupidly while THEY wait to hear Ke$ha.




Wait.




Oh...and writhe they do. Their first coupling is an exercise in awkward groping, with Haim undressing her with the zeal and confusion of someone recently released from EST. Eggert looks mildly put upon. And...I'm sorry, she's supposed to be 17 years old. I don't know why this bothered me so much when I can watch a Larry Clark movie and "get it". Oh wait. Yes I do. It's because his face STILL looks like a 37-year-old burn out! Feldman delivers his lines with the same forced gravelly growl he gave his Frog brother back in 1987's "The Lost Boys" but with his lame pony tail, effeminate way of cupping his cigarette "European" style, and posturing...it doesn't reeeeeeeally shriek "I'm a badass! Quiet! Dangerous!"




And then...they fight. Yes, the Corey's (clearly not emulating their "real-life" relationship) get into a knock-down drag'em out fight...that has the force, swagger, and gusto that you'd see between two kittens in a slap fest. I actually got angry at this point and sped up the film to the end. Bad fight choreography can suck, even if they aren't "fighters", per se. But when it hurts...then you pray for their ruination.




Anyway, Eggert did it. And at the bitter end we have a protracted show down scene between the three of them and some cops which wins the award for the lamest death scene by a character when Eggert FINALLY bites it...in fact, it's either king-sized lame or needs to be in a hall-of-fame somewhere next to the awful death's Schwarzenegger bestowed in "Raw Deal" and "Commando" combined.




Anyway, you have three actors...one of whom (Eggert) would stay on and retain notoriety on "Baywatch" for the next few years and doing another couple of Straight-To-Video starkers. The Corey's would have to wait for their time to rise again, and even then it'd be really to parody themselves. Haim wasn't able to bring himself back...he just kept on spiraling.




Anyway...this movie depressed the shit out of me, and then made me feel a little better about my talent as an actor while I was at it.




Friday, November 11, 2011

Another quick sabbatical

Hello, readers. Just wanted to give you a quick heads up that I'll be engaging in another brief blogging sabbatical. I shall return. And happy trails.

Wednesday, November 02, 2011

In which we close down the marathon season...

...for now. I guess Team Ortho added a half-Marathon this coming January to the Polar Dash and...I'm sorry. That should be renamed the Frostbite 13. Not worth the commemorative medal, nuh-uh...



Pictured: The author, pre-Monster Dash on 10/29/2011. Temperatures at approximately 7:30 a.m. were hovering in the high 20's. Yes. Feeling was lost in our extremities.


Well I survived the final half-marathon of 2011 and I'm pleased to say my easy-going gameplan entering the race paid off in the form of shaving 14 minutes off of my previous half-marathon PR. Pip.


And it was cold, too. Lord. Frosty ground. Knee-rattling weather. It seemed (as we pulled up next to the cathedral in a rock-star space) that the rock-star space was going to be the only respite. Thankfully, there's a church nearby! They'll take in the tired and poor huddled runners! Right? Kind of. The interior temperature wasn't much warmer than outside. The bishops were crusting out (mildly) the runners who were posing for pictures and fouling their restroom with their pre-race constitutionals while they tried to perform their Saturday morning service.

I was too busy mentally wondering how I'd manage getting in and out of my Spidey-suit in order to pee a second time with fingers that were numb if I was separated from Moda. (For a funnier story about that and her own reflections, go here.) By the time we decided to head outside to see if it had warmed up (It hadn't) the grounds and streets around cathedral hill were now swarming with runners- from the meticulously planned and hilariously costumed (There were Q-Tips, Nancy Kerrigan and Tonya Harding, generic "kitty-cats", plenty of "Where's Waldos", Animals, Aliens, Produce ala' "banana-man", cave people, and in our group: The game "Operation", Audrey Hepburn, Spider-Mikey, and an overworked and exhausted writer/actress) to the hard core runners...in their technical tops, wraparound shades, fleece hoodies, gobs of body glide for their nips and anti-glare for under their eyes.

In other words, those who looked warm, comfortable, and ready...and the rest of use be-lycra'ed idiots.




Pictured: Be-lycra'ed idiot #7365. Does my choice of super-hero make me look fat? Or the oft-commented superfluous short-shorts? Whatever. It cut out the wind-chill to the little web-shooter if you know what I mean.

After a freezing stand-around waiting in front of the Biffies while the pre-gun countdown was announced, we managed to dress (I did, anyway) and do a fast trot to find the 2:00 pace group. (Our only "real" strategery was to hang out with that particular group and see how we were feeling periodically on the course.) We found our way to an empty pocket. Did some quick hammy and quad stretches while making small talk around us (met a guy who had just ran his first ultra) and then "Boom". Go time.



After the 1st 2 miles or so Moda asked to hang back a little to have a comfortable and enjoyable run while I attempted my due diligence by standing next to the lady with the time-stick. After engaging with small chit-chat with some other runners we came to our first down hill and I got all excited for the burst of speed. So looking down at my little scamper steps I motored, only looking up when the road started even-ing out and the cop cars started bottle necking us in...and realized I had promptly lost my pacer. Fudge.



Thankfully, I still saw some costumed butts up ahead that were originally in my line of vision so I hung with them. And if I passed'em, I'd find new butts to stare at. Isn't racing fun? Occasionally I'd do the doofy thing and blather lines in the "voice" of whatever costume I'd pass next to. (Count von Count for example was "6! 6, magical miles remaining...Ah. Ha. Ha. Haaa!" Ron Burgundy got "ST.PAUL! Founded by the Aztecs in the 16th century, it's Spanish for 'WHALE'S VAGINA'...!" Stuff like that) I checked in with Garmin'd people to get a rough sense of pace and chatted with some older folks- with a second agenda to make sure they were doing okay. (Mile 7 tends to be the pain-in-the-ass wall during Half-Mary's that can be hard to overcome with out a little motivation, IMO.)



And I guess that was it, too. I kind of felt what Moda told me about when she did Grandma's and there were long stretches with no friends/cheerleaders/run-buddies keeping you company. Just you and the chilly and bright fall parkway. Which wasn't bad. Just, soul-searingly desolate. It was here I sort of missed my Ipod, actually. (To be fair, A/D + Henry were on the course...and I'm pretty sure I scared the shit out of the people around me when- at mile 10- I screamed this!)



To wrap up...I had a little cutie pie catch up with me yelling "Spider-Man! I've been using you to keep pace!" and so we kept each other company until around mile 11.5. Her first half-Mary with a similar goal of finishing sub-2:00, I gave what meager pointers I felt weren't insulting or intrusive ("Let's work those downhills!"/"Looking great!"/"I hit 'reset' when we got to mile 10...so we just have a lil' old 5K race left!" and that sort of frassy ilk.) And with the city and the thickening crowds indicating the end was near I put on the best burst of speed I could muster. (It was here that I realized I should have been wearing a Spidey suit for every race with the number of people screaming "Go Spidey GO!" towards the end.)



I eyeballed the clock and was painfully satisfied that I actually was able to make it back in sub-2:00 with some change...(The clock reading 2:06 as I hit the medal line.) and it wasn't until my friends came over the line and were able to check the times on the website that Moda pats my arm and said "Holy shit, Mikey...1:53:02?!?"



14 minutes better than my last PR at the Boom.

40 minutes faster than my first half in 2010 at the Mpls Marathon.



I barely registered this b/c I was too busy laughing at the banana-suited guy trying to get his medal over the top of his costume which was about 2 feet higher than his actual head.

So yes. I'm really pleased. This was a big-frassy accomplishment for me that I can honestly say one year ago I'd have never completed. (Moreover, I've a better understanding of how proud Moda was last year during the same race when she PR'd with her best at sub-two. It's a great feeling. Until you can barely find yourself standing upright waiting for your mylar cape.)



Good job, Team Awesome!


Pictured: Proud Monster Dashers, racing and running friends, trail and course Ipod lip-synchers/air-guitarists, and on the far right...naked clowns.