Nic Cage stops traffic every time he acts. But not enough has been made of Laurence Fishburne’s performance in the Pray-day-ders movie– his “on steroids” “2.0″ tribute to Col. Kurtz in Apocalypse Now performance.
Fishyburne in Predators takes us back to a screaming Al Pacino’s “because she’s got a big ass!“ in Heat. Except Laurence does it in a whisper while Adrian Brody stands next to him trying to remember if he ever won an Oscar.
Laurence Fishburne in Predators: a slapclap? Absolutely.
I know I’ve been away from the blog for a while and for that I apologize. I could lie and tell you that I’m a superhero but then would a superhero lie? He would, of course, to protect his secret identity. That puts us back at square one I guess. You still not knowing if I’m a superhero and me still not saying I am but at the same time fully admitting that if I were I would never tell you. The only thing left for us to do is back away slowly from each other and find the strength to continue on with this blog post. You first.
Sorry, this got off track didn’t it? Probably because I haven’t blogged in so long. Too busy shaping new canals in fresh magma to siphon off destructive lava flows headed towards dense populations. Joking! Superheroes do that. AND I’M NOT ONE.
Anyway, this video of people singing “Let It Be” more than makes up for my absence that all of you so deeply felt: Mom. Dad. Special thanks to the following musicians for singing this song:
George Wendt, Steve Guttenberg, David Faustino, Philip Michael Thomas, Roger Moore, Jason Alexander, Huey Lewis, Rikki Lake, the blonde on Melrose Place, Corbin Bernsen, Katarina Witt, a hypnotist, Glenn Close, Alfonso Ribeiero, the guy who beat up Donna on 90210, Dolph Lundgren, Judd Nelson, Peter Falk, Kelly McGillis, Rickey Schroeder, Robert Englund, Boyzone, Kathleen Turner, one half of Milli Vanilli, Dee Snider, Right Said Fred, Darryl Hannah, the band Rednex, the guy who played Forrest Gump as a boy, Lou Ferrigno, the band Berlin, and an extra debt of gratitude to Malcolm Jamal Warner.
(Above: a photoshop picture. Blagojevich courtroom sketches do not hang alongside Picasso's ... yet.)
Great art evokes emotion. I discovered this for myself several years ago when I visited the Reina Sofia museum in Madrid to see the iconic Picasso master painting Guernica. As I stood before this massive 11 x 25 ft. mural in oil I couldn’t move my eyes away from the 4 x 4 photograph of it in the “Around Town” section of my Time Out Madrid. That’s when I noticed the unlit matches tucked inside the pages of my tourism book.
It was no coincidence. Picasso’s masterwork was working through me- evoking me; provoking me. To do what exactly? Close my book, pocket my camera, and really view the thing? Or set that thing on fire? To whip out my matches and make a Picasso burn.
I didn’t of course. You would have read about it; I certainly would have blogged about it, and then the inevitable headline: “Uncomfortably Attractive Male Sets Picasso on Fire, Evades Custody, Admits to Crime via Beautifully Composed Weblog.”
But just because I didn’t burn down that Picasso doesn’t disqualify the emotions that Picasso evoked. It made me feel something. Or maybe it was the matches? Whatever. That feeling – be it reflective meditation or the lustful urge of an arsonist’s hate – it is a feeling.
Before that moment in Madrid I was not a big fan of art. More of a Bulls fan really. Up to that point, nothing I had seen stirred up such “burning” emotion (other than mailboxes) and no art has affected me the same way since.
I can not wait for this movie, or any movie that would dare stage a picture like this. This was probably not captured during actual filming, rather it looks to be an outtake of Benicio Del Toro “paling around” with his director.
Kind of like, “Ghaaa, you ponytailed sh*t machine! I can’t believe you talked me into this. Just kidding. No I’m not! I hope this tanks, AND I’M IN IT! That’s how much my career hates you right now. Ghaaa! Now lets get back to work, dummy.“
Your calls at the top of the hour. First though.. I really like this Shakira video. But then I guess I like anything with a TWIST at the end. And what a twist this was. Skip ahead. It was all happening in her closet! The pen is in your left ear Mr. Shyamalan.
And how appropriate the closet: practically the mascot for female angst. The place where women retire their nude body sock outfit for the evening after a long day of cage dancing. Also, the thing monsters come out of.
The following is a review of a trailer for a movie. To view the trailer, click HERE.
(click on pic)
On a warm summer’s eve the Golden Gate Bridge spans beautifully against the backdrop of an orange sky. Steinbeck famously referred to San Francisco as “the golden handcuff with the key thrown away,” and it is with that…
The year was 1976: Gerald Ford was president; black people had a comically large belief in their own athletic prowess, and 55 year old men who played golf every weekend went to bed distracted by the crushing need for another man’s touch. Back then, Roman Polanski directed all of the government P.S.A.’s, and back then swine flu was treated by drawing a pentagram on the floor with cat’s blood and making a wish inside.
No matter if I’m slapping fives with the blind guy who sells newspapers on my block, or high-fiving the guy who works at my local fruit stand (also blind), or even when I’m at the barbershop waiting for a haircut from blind Willie (he also owns a newspaper and fruit stand), I always get the same question: what makes a good “slapclap?”
The best example might be The Room, but that’s almost too easy. That’s like saying Winston Churchill would make a good “slap,” or Nazi paraphernalia a good “clap.” [Ed. note: those examples might be incorrect] A better example of a “slapclap” would be, oh I don’t know, this kids toy designed by Mark Ryden- so fraught with psychosomatic distress it would make Nietzsche cry and then vomit. (via)
Been a ton of hub bub about this new “miracle fruit.” It supposedly alters your taste buds, making sour things sweet. All due respect to the “media,” but skateboarders have been doing this for, I don’t know, years. When I was nine, walking home from the dentist, forced to suck on a lime because my step-Great Grandfather caught me playing with his Civil War pistol, I happened past the Young Catholics skateboard park in downtown South Bend, IN to behold a sight:
A young Travis Barker(ish) ‘boarder executing a perfect half-pike spiral 360° inward heelflip maneuver off a kick ramp the size of my step-Great Grandfather’s shrine to Union casualties. My mouth was sore, and filled with citrus, but what I said next is self-explanatory: “Sweet.”