Watching the latest airing of "Austin City Limits" fills me with regret, as I had really hoped to see The Swell Season when they were in Austin over the ACL Festival weekend. This was the first ACL in ages that I'd not attended, but the lineup wasn't that great, and aside from The Swell Season and Beck, I had already seen all of the acts playing that I wanted to see.
But The Swell Season... The Swell Season I had not seen.
Seeing them on Austin City Limits makes me upset that I was unable to procure tickets for their sold out show at the Paramount Theater (or better yet for the taping itself). Their renditions of songs from Once and new songs like, "Low Rising", make me all the more wistful.
Having seen Glen Hansard with The Frames (who still comprise the band), I know exactly what I've missed in a Glen Hansard-led show.
This Austin City Limits recording makes me want more.
P.S. Why are you not in HD on DirecTV, KLRU. I know the show is taped in HD. Not cool.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
A Man for All Seasons: Rudd 'n D.T.
In honor of Derrick Thomas, here is a clip of the world's most famous Chiefs fan.
Congrats, #58.
Congrats, #58.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Tube Steak: Reasons I Dislike "Battlestar Galactica" - Part Four
The Denigration of the Eye-Patch
If the film resume of Kurt Russell has taught me anything, it is that the eye-patch is to be reserved for only the most extreme of badasses.
Exhibit A:
Snake Plissken
This is one of the biggest badasses in the history of man
Captain Ron
Did you see the shit he pulled off in Cuba?
It was the work of the eye-patched Kurt Russell that caused kids the world over to wish that they would lose an eye.
Exhibit C:
Then the creators of "Battlestar Galactica" decide that they are going to sully what filmmakers have been using the likes of Kurt Russell to create: the image of the eye-patch as a sign of toughness. Kurt Russell teamed with men like John Carpenter to the reverse the fortune for those afflicted by a disability, cyclopia. Kurt Russell and John Carpenter worked painstakingly hard toward the cause of lionizing the uniocular, only to have these fuckers bastardize their work by wasting the eye-patch on this guy:
And to make matters worse, they have gone away from the piratically inspired eye-patch that we have come to love, to respect, to revere. They have short-changed the one-eyed by fashioning an eye-patch from band-aidian materials, universally dicking over the eye-patch adorned world over with this:
And he's just a curmudgeonly old fuck. You can't like him. He's a liar. And a Cylon. And just not cool. People (or robots) who wear eye-patches are supposed to be cool goddammit. That guy is not cool by any stretch of the imagination, and that is bullshit.
If the film resume of Kurt Russell has taught me anything, it is that the eye-patch is to be reserved for only the most extreme of badasses.
Exhibit A:
Snake PlisskenThis is one of the biggest badasses in the history of man
Exhibit B:
Captain RonDid you see the shit he pulled off in Cuba?
It was the work of the eye-patched Kurt Russell that caused kids the world over to wish that they would lose an eye.
Exhibit C:
Then the creators of "Battlestar Galactica" decide that they are going to sully what filmmakers have been using the likes of Kurt Russell to create: the image of the eye-patch as a sign of toughness. Kurt Russell teamed with men like John Carpenter to the reverse the fortune for those afflicted by a disability, cyclopia. Kurt Russell and John Carpenter worked painstakingly hard toward the cause of lionizing the uniocular, only to have these fuckers bastardize their work by wasting the eye-patch on this guy:
And to make matters worse, they have gone away from the piratically inspired eye-patch that we have come to love, to respect, to revere. They have short-changed the one-eyed by fashioning an eye-patch from band-aidian materials, universally dicking over the eye-patch adorned world over with this:
And he's just a curmudgeonly old fuck. You can't like him. He's a liar. And a Cylon. And just not cool. People (or robots) who wear eye-patches are supposed to be cool goddammit. That guy is not cool by any stretch of the imagination, and that is bullshit.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Rediscovering the Past: Cool Runnings
While watching Cool Runnings last night the ending was called into question as being too Hollywood. As much as I didn't want it to be true...
Doug E. Doug?...
Leon?...
New York Undercover?...
Carlton?...
You hurt my feelings. You betrayed my trust. You DID NOT carry that sled to the finish line. You lied to me.
Moreover, none of the characters were real. What the fuck Walt Disney? Goddamn you. Goddamn you to Hell, you purveyors of falsehoods.
FUUUUUCCCCKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!
So this all means there was no Yul Brenner, and there was no Sanka Coffie.
My life is ruined.
Wait.
Wait...
Does this mean that those swimmers in Pride weren't real?
Oh, shit. Wait. Was Rocky Balboa not real, too?
My life as I knew it is over.
Doug E. Doug?...
Leon?...
New York Undercover?...
Carlton?...
You hurt my feelings. You betrayed my trust. You DID NOT carry that sled to the finish line. You lied to me.
Moreover, none of the characters were real. What the fuck Walt Disney? Goddamn you. Goddamn you to Hell, you purveyors of falsehoods.
FUUUUUCCCCKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!
So this all means there was no Yul Brenner, and there was no Sanka Coffie.
My life is ruined.
Wait.
Wait...
Does this mean that those swimmers in Pride weren't real?
Oh, shit. Wait. Was Rocky Balboa not real, too?
My life as I knew it is over.
Man on Film: The Wrestler Redux
As I sit here listening to Working on a Dream for probably the seventh time in the past two days, it occurred to me that I had not written a review/reflection* on The Wrestler. Well, that's not entirely true. In fact, that is not even remotely true. Unfortunately, the slipshod, mailed in manner in which I wrote the initial review of The Wrestler was so lacking that I actually forgot I had done one until I went back and checked my blog. So without further ado, I shall enter a second installment into the annals of the internet; one which does more justice to the film than my initial try. If you have not seen the movie yet, you may not want to proceed past this point as there will be talk about plot points to the point of there being some fairly significant spoilers. You have been warned.
*I'm sure I've said this here before, but I hesitate to call what I'm doing here reviewing for a few reasons. Chiefly, I do want to err from reviewing films, per se, in this space. While there are certainly reactions to, ruminations on, and reflections on films here at Inconsiderate Prick, review implies an act that I'm not sure I feel comfortable using here.
I have actually reviewed films in print in the past and can safely say that what I do here is different from what I did in that capacity. I have also written a fair amount of film criticism and written more than my share of film theory papers as a result of having minored in film theory and would also have to say that what I am doing here would not qualify as such without a liberal amount of stretching the definition of film criticism and theory.
I also tend to bristle against reviews of films, as the popular form of film review is one which has largely abandoned analysis of elements in filmmaking that are key to understanding and appreciating a film, opting for a simple critique of acting and narrative and crediting and disparaging those elements to the direction, for better or worse. So, while the film reviewer or critic more often than not leaves me wanting, I would prefer to not associate myself with that form (even though I assign each such entry with the "film reviews" tag, for lack of something more apropos or even more pretentious than this diatribe) and try to distance myself somewhat from reviewing a film and approach something more closely resembling a reaction/reflection.
Perhaps this return to the film has been spurred by the repeated listens to "The Wrestler", which so aptly evokes the character of Randy "The Ram" Robinson that it actually moves me. Few songs affect me to that extent, but if a song actually moves me to the extent that I have to revisit a film I saw two weeks ago, it certainly achieved its goal.
Maybe my return to the film was inspired by having heard Darren Aronofsky on Fresh Air Monday. His love for the character seems real. His respect for the medium--the line that it walks between artform and spectacle, sport and play, play-fighting and true pain--really came through upon having heard him speak of the sport and the research done for the film. Any doubt of the sincere passion he felt for not only the character he constructed but for the real wrestlers of years past and the lackluster place they have left for the place they once held was eliminated upon hearing him talk at length on the film.
What Aronofsky accomplishes on screen is truly amazing. In the opening credits, he lies the pinnacle of The Ram's career out for all to see--the years in which he rode atop the wrestling circuit, headlining events at the Madison Square Garden to sellout crowds. The success of Randy "The Ram" Robinson at what many would argue was the pinnacle of wrestling's popularity* is promptly put in the distant past as we are jarringly introduced to present day Ram, performing in high school gymnasiums and VFWs for chump change in front of tiny crowds of the unipeds and the downtrodden, seeking out their own escape from their own forgotten lives.
*Sure, wrestling enjoyed a resurgence in the late '90s-early '00s, but with the exception of The Rock none of those wrestlers transcended the sport and captured imaginations like Hulk Hogan or Ric Flair or Andre the Giant or Rowdy Roddy Piper did.
And while you instantly feel sorry for this man who has to subject himself to such a pitiable set of circumstances, attempting to revisit and recapture the gloried acts of his prime to ever dwindling crowds of spectators while his body struggles not to perform the acts but to merely continue on, Aronofsky imbues him with the flaws of every man. This is not a noble man who has lived a life free of transgressions. He abandoned his wife and daughter when he still mattered and wants back in his daughter's life largely because he feels alone. He is a man that, when given another chance, blows it nearly every time. You get the sense that he more than likely made the bed in which he lies. Regardless, he is a man who has been exploited to make money for others--much more money than you would imagine he could ever have seen. When The Ram's body has been used up, he is left alone to deal with the damage, while the parties complicit in and profiting from the abuse are nowhere to be seen. Despite his obviously self-absorbed and self-destructive path, Randy "The Ram" Robinson is a mostly likeable character who, on a certain level, seems like a person with a good heart even though he never managed to put together a life that included much more than himself.
And, upon trying to right the wrongs of his past, he is justly spurned by his daughter after falling into old ways and forgetting about plans he made with her. When trying to reach out to the equally-aged-for-her-field Cassidey, his initial attempts are rebuffed. When she finally does come around, he has already determined the path he must take. His body has been used up, all the spare beats in his heart have been spent, and if he is going to go out, he is going to go out with the people who love him, even if that love is only for those few briefs moments in the ring where he is king.
And goddammit, when he jumps off of that top rope, and the screen goes to black with just the cheer of the crowd which slowly shifts into the should-be Oscar-winning Best Original Song, Aronofsky punches his audience square in the gut. "Tell me friend can you ask for anything more?"
*I'm sure I've said this here before, but I hesitate to call what I'm doing here reviewing for a few reasons. Chiefly, I do want to err from reviewing films, per se, in this space. While there are certainly reactions to, ruminations on, and reflections on films here at Inconsiderate Prick, review implies an act that I'm not sure I feel comfortable using here.
I have actually reviewed films in print in the past and can safely say that what I do here is different from what I did in that capacity. I have also written a fair amount of film criticism and written more than my share of film theory papers as a result of having minored in film theory and would also have to say that what I am doing here would not qualify as such without a liberal amount of stretching the definition of film criticism and theory.
I also tend to bristle against reviews of films, as the popular form of film review is one which has largely abandoned analysis of elements in filmmaking that are key to understanding and appreciating a film, opting for a simple critique of acting and narrative and crediting and disparaging those elements to the direction, for better or worse. So, while the film reviewer or critic more often than not leaves me wanting, I would prefer to not associate myself with that form (even though I assign each such entry with the "film reviews" tag, for lack of something more apropos or even more pretentious than this diatribe) and try to distance myself somewhat from reviewing a film and approach something more closely resembling a reaction/reflection.
Perhaps this return to the film has been spurred by the repeated listens to "The Wrestler", which so aptly evokes the character of Randy "The Ram" Robinson that it actually moves me. Few songs affect me to that extent, but if a song actually moves me to the extent that I have to revisit a film I saw two weeks ago, it certainly achieved its goal.
Maybe my return to the film was inspired by having heard Darren Aronofsky on Fresh Air Monday. His love for the character seems real. His respect for the medium--the line that it walks between artform and spectacle, sport and play, play-fighting and true pain--really came through upon having heard him speak of the sport and the research done for the film. Any doubt of the sincere passion he felt for not only the character he constructed but for the real wrestlers of years past and the lackluster place they have left for the place they once held was eliminated upon hearing him talk at length on the film.
What Aronofsky accomplishes on screen is truly amazing. In the opening credits, he lies the pinnacle of The Ram's career out for all to see--the years in which he rode atop the wrestling circuit, headlining events at the Madison Square Garden to sellout crowds. The success of Randy "The Ram" Robinson at what many would argue was the pinnacle of wrestling's popularity* is promptly put in the distant past as we are jarringly introduced to present day Ram, performing in high school gymnasiums and VFWs for chump change in front of tiny crowds of the unipeds and the downtrodden, seeking out their own escape from their own forgotten lives.
*Sure, wrestling enjoyed a resurgence in the late '90s-early '00s, but with the exception of The Rock none of those wrestlers transcended the sport and captured imaginations like Hulk Hogan or Ric Flair or Andre the Giant or Rowdy Roddy Piper did.
And while you instantly feel sorry for this man who has to subject himself to such a pitiable set of circumstances, attempting to revisit and recapture the gloried acts of his prime to ever dwindling crowds of spectators while his body struggles not to perform the acts but to merely continue on, Aronofsky imbues him with the flaws of every man. This is not a noble man who has lived a life free of transgressions. He abandoned his wife and daughter when he still mattered and wants back in his daughter's life largely because he feels alone. He is a man that, when given another chance, blows it nearly every time. You get the sense that he more than likely made the bed in which he lies. Regardless, he is a man who has been exploited to make money for others--much more money than you would imagine he could ever have seen. When The Ram's body has been used up, he is left alone to deal with the damage, while the parties complicit in and profiting from the abuse are nowhere to be seen. Despite his obviously self-absorbed and self-destructive path, Randy "The Ram" Robinson is a mostly likeable character who, on a certain level, seems like a person with a good heart even though he never managed to put together a life that included much more than himself.
And, upon trying to right the wrongs of his past, he is justly spurned by his daughter after falling into old ways and forgetting about plans he made with her. When trying to reach out to the equally-aged-for-her-field Cassidey, his initial attempts are rebuffed. When she finally does come around, he has already determined the path he must take. His body has been used up, all the spare beats in his heart have been spent, and if he is going to go out, he is going to go out with the people who love him, even if that love is only for those few briefs moments in the ring where he is king.
And goddammit, when he jumps off of that top rope, and the screen goes to black with just the cheer of the crowd which slowly shifts into the should-be Oscar-winning Best Original Song, Aronofsky punches his audience square in the gut. "Tell me friend can you ask for anything more?"
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Tube Steak: Reasons I Dislike "Battlestar Galactica" -- Part Three
Sorry for the delay in coming back to you with another installment in this heavily read and much demanded series. In the first two installments I railed on the use of the word 'frak' and the disingenuous use of sex as a selling point. Of the myriad qualms I have with this show, first and foremost after those two items is the atrocious acting of model Tricia Helfer. Now, outside of EJO, none of the acting in this series as above reproach. I take great issue with nearly every putrid word that pours forth from the mouths of these basic cable* actors, but the "acting" of one Tricia Helfer deserves its own post.
*And basic cable in this case is more a reference to the 1990s way of thinking about basic cable television. The "Silk Stalkings"/"Weird Science" ilk is what I'm referring to here. Think Rob Estes. Think Vanessa Angel. I recognize that cable television is now more viable than network television in terms of finding legitimate prime-time programming of a high enough quality to warrant actually spending your valuable time watching it. If anything, that actually pisses me off more insofar as this dreck-fest "BSG".
After eleven years of professional modeling, she took to acting and unfurled her horribly breathy schtick on the world. Clearly, she impressed the producers and casting director for "Battlestar Galactica" with her star turn as a guest star in an episode of "CSI: Not the One with Horatio Caine" and her showstopping performance as the fifth-billed actor in the much-lauded independent film White Rush, which is currently sitting at a rock-solid 4.9 user rating on IMDB. Based on this body of work, they cast Tricia Helfer to play sexy cylon and rest much of the viability of the show on the shoulders of someone with the necessary chops.
Fucking brilliant.
Inspired.
Dipshits.
So now, when that special someone is watching "BSG", I get to suffer through Ms. Helfer's imitation of acting. Her facial twitching as she sputters out every preposterous line in her permanent fuck me whisper. Her facial twitching that leads me to belief that she might actually have Tourette's or some other condition that could explain a facial tic while I pray for a Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf-ian cursing fit to slip by the censors who must be as bored as I am. Her involuntary eye-widening followed by eye-narrowing that is supposed to be sexy but fails miserably and is simply distracting and off-putting. These things are causing me actual physical and psychic pain.
This isn't even hitting on the sad attempts at luring virginal fanboys into her web of lies and deceit which I already discussed at length. If they actually knew what a woman's touch felt like or how women acted, this would not be effective. Yet in the winter of 2007, these young (and not-so-young) men were mustering up the courage to ask the clerk at the convenience store to reach a little behind them to their left and toss in that magazine in the black plastic to the one-liter of Mountain Dew, the $3.59 bag of Cooler Ranch Doritos, and the Almond Joy that they just plopped down on the counter as a weak ploy to excuse the fact that the only reason they went in there in the first place was to buy the only issue of Playboy they have ever glimpsed (but only because Summer Glau and Gillian Anderson haven't posed) in their lives just so that they can finally see what those goddamn cameras won't let them.
And if you ask me, that career move was more than encouraged by the show's producers because from the onset they've been peddling pseudo-soft-core space smut to unwitting virgins who cannot see that they're being used, and the saddest part is that they're being played by one of the worst actresses in the world--one who defines acting by fucking around with her eyes as much as possible and breathing on whoever is close to her.
Fuck this show.
*And basic cable in this case is more a reference to the 1990s way of thinking about basic cable television. The "Silk Stalkings"/"Weird Science" ilk is what I'm referring to here. Think Rob Estes. Think Vanessa Angel. I recognize that cable television is now more viable than network television in terms of finding legitimate prime-time programming of a high enough quality to warrant actually spending your valuable time watching it. If anything, that actually pisses me off more insofar as this dreck-fest "BSG".
After eleven years of professional modeling, she took to acting and unfurled her horribly breathy schtick on the world. Clearly, she impressed the producers and casting director for "Battlestar Galactica" with her star turn as a guest star in an episode of "CSI: Not the One with Horatio Caine" and her showstopping performance as the fifth-billed actor in the much-lauded independent film White Rush, which is currently sitting at a rock-solid 4.9 user rating on IMDB. Based on this body of work, they cast Tricia Helfer to play sexy cylon and rest much of the viability of the show on the shoulders of someone with the necessary chops.
Fucking brilliant.
Inspired.
Dipshits.
So now, when that special someone is watching "BSG", I get to suffer through Ms. Helfer's imitation of acting. Her facial twitching as she sputters out every preposterous line in her permanent fuck me whisper. Her facial twitching that leads me to belief that she might actually have Tourette's or some other condition that could explain a facial tic while I pray for a Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf-ian cursing fit to slip by the censors who must be as bored as I am. Her involuntary eye-widening followed by eye-narrowing that is supposed to be sexy but fails miserably and is simply distracting and off-putting. These things are causing me actual physical and psychic pain.
This isn't even hitting on the sad attempts at luring virginal fanboys into her web of lies and deceit which I already discussed at length. If they actually knew what a woman's touch felt like or how women acted, this would not be effective. Yet in the winter of 2007, these young (and not-so-young) men were mustering up the courage to ask the clerk at the convenience store to reach a little behind them to their left and toss in that magazine in the black plastic to the one-liter of Mountain Dew, the $3.59 bag of Cooler Ranch Doritos, and the Almond Joy that they just plopped down on the counter as a weak ploy to excuse the fact that the only reason they went in there in the first place was to buy the only issue of Playboy they have ever glimpsed (but only because Summer Glau and Gillian Anderson haven't posed) in their lives just so that they can finally see what those goddamn cameras won't let them.
And if you ask me, that career move was more than encouraged by the show's producers because from the onset they've been peddling pseudo-soft-core space smut to unwitting virgins who cannot see that they're being used, and the saddest part is that they're being played by one of the worst actresses in the world--one who defines acting by fucking around with her eyes as much as possible and breathing on whoever is close to her.
Fuck this show.
Musicalia: Wait, Bruce Who?
All right, just to forewarn you, there will be an inordinate amount of Bruce Springsteen posts coming down the pike. This is merely the first of many. Well, not the first. I have written about him before, including a travelogue of sorts last spring when Chad, Mark, and I went to see him in Dallas. If you are interested, it is here (be forewarned, there will be references to defecation in that post, but if that scares you off, you should probably avoid this site).
Now, that was my first time seeing The Boss, which means I had my mind fucking blown. Amazing. Walking out, I just wanted to see him again. That's cool, because if things go according to plan, I will get to see him again. On April 5th. And I can probably walk there if I'm feeling particularly pumped.
So you'll not be hearing long-winded accounts of defecating in disturbingly black bathrooms or feeling sorry for the gayest kid in Hillsboro, Texas. No, Bruce Springsteen is coming to town on the Working on a Dream tour.
And Mr. Springsteen, if you're reading this and need a place to stay, there's room at my house. I would totally hang out with you if you asked.
Now, that was my first time seeing The Boss, which means I had my mind fucking blown. Amazing. Walking out, I just wanted to see him again. That's cool, because if things go according to plan, I will get to see him again. On April 5th. And I can probably walk there if I'm feeling particularly pumped.
So you'll not be hearing long-winded accounts of defecating in disturbingly black bathrooms or feeling sorry for the gayest kid in Hillsboro, Texas. No, Bruce Springsteen is coming to town on the Working on a Dream tour.
And Mr. Springsteen, if you're reading this and need a place to stay, there's room at my house. I would totally hang out with you if you asked.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Tube Steak: "Saxondale" Series One
Coogan's post-Alan Partridge series is pretty rock solid. He's carved out a pretty great character, as the once somewhat cool Tommy Saxondale--a former roadie for many of the great 70s and 80s rock bands who has settled rather uncomfortably (each episode starts with him hijacking an anger-management class) into a more suburban lifestyle as an pest-control guy, who is smarter than he appears but is unable to relate to his suburban brethren. The awkwardness (latent in most British comedy) arises generally in a few ways: Tommy's compulsive verbosity, eventually placing his foot in his mouth; Tommy's unexpected worldliness falling on deaf ears as his clients tend to be either a) not interested in hearing the philosophical waxings of their exterminator, or b) completely ignorant of what he is expounding upon ad nauseum; Tommy's sexual piccadilloes or embarrassing physical conditions being exposed. When any of these things happen, he has to hold back his anger, which queers out everyone around him.
Random notes on the series to follow:
Random notes on the series to follow:
- I like how the actress who plays Tina (Sarah Hadland) in episode five has played essentially the same role in two things I've seen her in recently--she was also in The Dinner Party episode of "The IT Crowd"--the over-sexed thirty(possibly-forty)something.
- Vicky's cattiness and the ensuing twitching fits it sends Tommy into is hilarious.
- The semi-goth squatter Coogan plays is brilliant
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Tube Steak: "Snuff Box"
I just saw the entire run of "Snuff Box" this evening. What a weird trip that was...
For the most part it was pretty great. It definitely crossed over into the realm of super-lewd at times, which is all right by me. Its continuing story lines are sometimes curiously woven together, which can make it slightly head-scratching, but for the most part it is pretty goddamn funny, even if it does veer into the absurdly weird like this:
Or the absolutely righteous, like this:
And Matt Berry wrote all the music for the show, too, which is a good thing if you loved "One Track Lover" as much as I did. He and Rich Fulcher play off one another well, with Fulcher playing the irritating American to a 't'. All in all, very funny and something you should get your hands on.
For the most part it was pretty great. It definitely crossed over into the realm of super-lewd at times, which is all right by me. Its continuing story lines are sometimes curiously woven together, which can make it slightly head-scratching, but for the most part it is pretty goddamn funny, even if it does veer into the absurdly weird like this:
Or the absolutely righteous, like this:
And Matt Berry wrote all the music for the show, too, which is a good thing if you loved "One Track Lover" as much as I did. He and Rich Fulcher play off one another well, with Fulcher playing the irritating American to a 't'. All in all, very funny and something you should get your hands on.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Man on Film: What?
I think it's only appropriate that for my 300th post on this blog, I bring news of Sylvester Stallone. After all, for months, this blog was loaded with Rambo content. Upon the release of the film, that dedication was rewarded handsomely by the most brazenly badass movie in the history of time.
Sly is about to start shooting his next project, The Expendables, and this is what he looks like right now (thanks to AICN for posting this picture):
Holy fuck.
The dude is 62. I'm totally serious. 62.
And because I had to...
Sly is about to start shooting his next project, The Expendables, and this is what he looks like right now (thanks to AICN for posting this picture):
Holy fuck.
The dude is 62. I'm totally serious. 62.
And because I had to...
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