One of the few times I get snobbish and truly rant...

I thought I had included this entry in the early days of this blog, but upon review I found that I merely found another tangent to follow on the topic. However, with the advent of my first interview on vampire lore, I find myself tasked with amping up my rant quotient. Thus, my rant (to date) to end all rants. Even though it was written over two years ago, my feelings have not changed -- though I will say that Nolan's 'Batman' trilogy has advanced some of the cinematic ideas regarding baddies and those who just want to watch the world burn.


Writer's Block Query: Is there a book you really loved that was subsequently turned into a movie? Did it live up to your expectations? Why or why not?

Hoo boy... settle in, readers. You just opened the door for me to talk about 'the abomination' that is the film industry's attempt to ruin my favorite book. Over. And over. And OVER.(andaoveandoverandoverandover about 3,000 times -- number of times only slightly exaggerated).
For the newer peeps, random visitors, or those who just may not have been paying attention, my favorite book is Dracula. I blame my father. He told me at sixteen that this was 'the great unfilmed novel.' This is the last thing you want to say to a gothic-horror-loving teen who is a voracious reader, writer, film buff and has a passion for creative endeavors including film-making -- unless, that is, you want to create an obsessive monster.
Now, as movie adaptations of books go, I'm not a complete purist. I understand the need to clip some things, adjust others, creatively interpret descriptions and thoughts and situations. I get it. The execution doesn't always work for me, but I understand the need for it. So I want to make that clear before I start in on my rant. I also want to make it known there are some adaptations of books to film I think are great, one of which I'll close on after my scathing commentary. I love the 'Lord of the Rings' trilogy. I love (most of) the 'Harry Potter' movies (Seriously, what happened between OotP and HBP? How did the director go retarded in that short span of time? Different rant...). I adore the 2005 'Pride & Prejudice' film, as well as the miniseries with Colin Firth. There are also a lot of adaptations that make me twitch (*cough*Kubrick's 'The Shining'*cough*), but we'll avoid those this time since I'm about to go full-force snark on one of the 'greatest living directors' of American cinema.

Francis Ford Coppola, you raped my book.

What disturbs and angers me foremost about 'Bram Stoker's Dracula' is that it's the only film to carry the author's name in the title and is so obviously not the book. This is made worse by the fact that when you watch interviews or read literature on the film, Coppola actually thinks he DID film the book. Now tell me, scholarly director, where in that book does Mina go on a date to the movies with Dracula? WHERE? And when precisely does she profess her undying love for him and shaft her husband in favor of Drac's scary bouffant hair and red dress? You want to know what this movie is? It's the Karloff version of 'The Mummy' adapted with vampires along with the characters and some scenes from Stoker's novel. Granted it is, so far, the only version of 'Dracula' to include all three of Lucy's suitors. Unfortunately, as is the case with most of the characters, they aren't really the type of men they are meant to be (or, in the case of Billy Campbell's quite wonderful portrayal of Quincey, he's so 'actually the character' that he seems out of place next to everyone else's wackiness). Barring their titular inclusion, the characters are written and portrayed basically nothing like they are in the book. Mina's a blushing bride turned wanton love slave of Dracula. Lucy's a man-chasing whore. Van Helsing's a complete crack pot. Seward, a brilliant young doctor, can't possibly run an asylum on his own without being unbalanced himself (oh, and a morphine addict because everyone in Victorian society was addicted to sex, morphine, absynthe and/or opium). Jonathan Harker is a giant pussy (and Keanu? Seriously? WTF, casting directors?). Arthur is probably the only one besides Quincey who is somewhat true to character (and a complete waste of Cary Elwes who, in an ideal situation, would have been the PERFECT Arthur). Dracula himself is a whiny, manipulative, cuckolding bat-man who just wants to find love.
Excuse me? Dracula travels all the way from Transylvania to England to seduce and romance a girl who looks like his suicidal wife from 400 years ago? HE JUST WANTS TO BE LOVED?!? F that S! What the man wants is to settle in to a quiet life in England where he can blend in and kill people at his leisure in a society that, unlike those superstitious gypsies, embraces modern science and reason and therefore will dismiss his crimes as something rational and explainable. When this is threatened by the men in this book, he turns on the vengeance and wreaks havoc on their lives. Why? BECAUSE HE'S EVIL.
This is a huge problem I have with this movie (and a lot of movies, adaptations or not) -- the resistance to the concept of evil. It's not necessarily that bad people are glorified, or mistreated and misunderstood (though that happens), it's that there is a lack of ability in film-making, and in society as a whole: to believe that some things, some people, some entities simply desire nothing more than to kill, to hate, to destroy and ravage and wreak havoc. The reverse, sadly, is also true (though to a lesser extent) -- that no one can be good for the sake of just being good. No one is pure of heart. No one will fight for goodness simply because they are good and believe in the goodness of others. (Anyone understanding now one of the reasons I love Doctor Who?) Everyone has to have dark motives, want something selfish, be an addict, covet their neighbor's ass and go for it. I'm not saying people should be portrayed without flaws or dark deeds and always taking the moral and ethical high road. What I'm saying is there aren't enough Aragorn's and Samwise's in our media.
Those being the major issues -- and they are MAJOR -- there are lesser problems I have with the movie. For instance, the Dracu-babes making time with Harker in the castle, biting on him and nearly giving him a BJ... yeah. Never happens. Not even close. There are also so many minor-seeming adjustments to situations, and how characters react to them, that when you know the story simply point to the creative minds not knowing how to portray a moment and so masking it with over-the-top constructs (Dracula as the giant talking bat, anyone?).
I could keep going. For hours. Some people have seen/heard me do this. However, I'll spare you the minutiae of everything that's wrong with this movie. As a film, it's not terrible (it's not particularly good either). As an adaptation of Bram Stoker's novel, it's an abomination.
This is however, par for the course with Dracula interpretations. There is no film in existence, of the hundreds that have been made which are somehow connected to the source, which even remotely begins to resemble the actual novel. I attack this one the most because it's the highest profile, the most recent 'straight interpretation' of the novel made for wide release, and because its title should be stripped from the record and replaced with "Francis Ford Coppola's The Mummy with Vampires and Characters Loosely Based on Bram Stoker's Dracula."

I have a thing for forbidden men...

William Howley, Archbishop of Canterbury

This bust is on display at the Huntington Gallery in San Marino, CA. It’s in a room with some of Gainsborough’s most popular paintings and some other stunning works of portraiture and marble busts. Yet every time I go, I cannot help but marvel at this one… because this is one damn fine looking clergyman.

There’s loads of boring stuff like Sundays and Tuesdays and Thursday afternoons.

From a little blog post I did on another site regarding this day:
Thursday is my least favorite day of the week. That’s right. Not Monday, when (if you’re cursed with a standard day job) you must return to the blinding fluorescent lights and windowless cubicle world for another five days of torture. Not Sunday when, just like as a child, you dread the upcoming return to the cubicle/classroom environment. No, it’s Thursday for the win. 
Thursday dangles the weekend before you yet stands as a constant reminder that you’re not done yet. People tend to be more testy, more easily riled, and more frustrated with the universe on Thursday (at least most of the people I know). Thursday reminds you that all those deadlines you set for the end of the week and haven’t achieved yet are imminent — and you’re probably not going to achieve them. Thursday afternoon is the most interminable three to four hours of the whole work week. Time actually does move backwards. 

There's been a lot happening in my little 'verse lately, and yet not so much that I feel as though a lot of progress has been made. I think it's a pitfall of spending so many years in theatre that I yearn for an immediate response to projects which are completed start to finish in a matter of months. Setting deadlines to complete a work that's been in progress for years... my patience just wears thin.
Still, I'm trying to avoid the pitfalls of wanting to move on to something else because damnit, this year I am going to finish something. More than one something if I can stick to the deadlines. 
I just have to work through the low days, including every wretched Thursday...

Aren't Ordinary People Adorable?

"Have you ever had anyone?"

Or: Why the Eff Aren't You Effing Watching Sherlock?
You must be lowering the IQ of your entire street.

I've had a good deal of conversations lately regarding adaptation of source materials for television and film. A good number of these conversations revolve around how what makes an interpretation not only faithful but engaging is the ability to remain true to the spirit of its source and, more importantly, the characterization. An excellent (superb, magnificent, mind-blowing... I'm seriously running out of superlative adjectives to describe it) example of crafting something which remains true to its source while giving having a life of its own is the BBC Sherlock. The stories are Doyle's, modernized. The characters are Doyle's, modernized. The show embodies everything that made the Sherlock Holmes stories timeless yet updates them to enrapture a modern audience.

Generally, I try to refrain from being a snob about entertainment (film, TV, music, literature) because I dislike the idea of having a narrow view of the great scope which makes up these incredible, diverse disciplines. While I will call out crap as crap, I try not to slam people's enjoyment of their preferred selections for creative indulgence (because let's be honest: I like some crap myself). Yet I will admit to a general feeling that 95% of what exists on television these days is utter crap, and the shows that truly craft engaging, compelling, emotionally investing, intelligent stories and characters get overlooked for yet another incarnation of American Idols Who Think They Can Have Talent Tout Their Voice For Dancing With Former Quasi Stars. I digress...

What Conan Doyle created with his detective series inspired, and continues to inspire, creative storytelling to this day. Much as the current Sherlock Holmes films bear little resemblance to their source material, they are engaging, entertaining Victorian buddy movies with equally gorgeous stars. (Confession: my own personal tastes lean much more toward Jude Law than RDJ, but I do enjoy them both.) I acknowledge and accept this fact, and in so doing  appreciate and enjoy these films for what they are.
With Sherlock, I not only enjoy the show as entertainment but as a study in adaptation, humanity, corruption, insanity, and... well... life. By staying true to the characters and stories crafted, the creators of the show are free to expand on the concepts Doyle presented in his original stories and interpret them for a post-post-modern audience.

Those are all quite academic reasons for watching the show. In po-po-mo parlance: this show is the shit. Sherlock is a brilliant sociopath whose own human nature is tested and explored by the forming friendship with the lost former army doctor who actually misses being in the middle of a war. Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, IS the British government though he would claim otherwise, and yet he demonstrates an immense desire to look out for his brother, twisted thought their relationship may be.
If John is the anchor for the show, and for Sherlock, Moriarty is the foil. Just as brilliant as Sherlock and yet the prime example of psychopathy to Sherlock's sociopathic tendencies. There's a damn good reason the actors for all three of these major players were BAFTA-nominated this year. And quite honestly, the fact that Andrew Scott won for what amounts to an episode plus about five additional minutes of screen time speaks volumes to his talent, and the talents of the production team.

Bottom line: Sherlock truly is the best show you're not watching. So get on that...
(And don't even get me started on the masterful way Mofftiss ends a season.)

Life's Road Signs...

True dat!

Much to my constant chagrin, on this journey of life there are no signs along the road which say truly helpful things like:
Buckets of money over here!
Turn this way for ultimate success in your professional endeavors!
Three miles straight ahead to your perfect human companion!
Satisfaction with the state of your life and acceptance of who you are just through this thicket of brambles on the other side of the mountain!
Free puppies (already wormed, neutered, chipped, and with free food for a year)!

Wait... that last one actually does exist sometimes and is for me, in a brief moment of extreme optimism, always a sign which leads to happiness both for the recipient and the puppies.

You get the point, though. And if any of those other signs has shown up in your life and led to what is indicated, please give me directions to your road... unless that road involves joining Scientology, becoming a total slut, or sacrificing all my ethics in order to achieve my desires (gee, and I wonder why I haven't found success in Los Angeles yet...).

There are, however, signs which alert us to events, situations, traps, pitfalls, and such to avoid -- sometimes the signs are even multiple and give us a way out, if not to a better road, at least a different one with better potential. These signs aren't always obvious, but often they are, and in either instance there are times when we are either too distracted looking for the signs we want to see, or too stubborn to pay heed to the warnings, or too distracted by a drifting plastic bag across the road to notice the signs.
Then, one day, we look around and realize we're on a road we never intended to be with (seemingly) no idea how we got there, nor how to get away. Whatever triggers our realization, we ultimately have few options: stay where we are, accepting that this is where we took ourselves and just deal with it -- or find a way out.
Option one is safe. We may not be in the place we intended, or even want, but we're here now. Why not make the best of it? Accept, deal, and hang out here. Maybe we'll adjust to this place and find some type of satisfaction in it... eventually. Maybe.
Option two is terrifying. Exhilarating. It has the potential to alienate us from those we've been heading down the same road with and formed bonds with along the way. We could crash our proverbial cars or drive them off a cliff trying to get out of this place. We could also find our own road, build it if necessary, that leads to what we really want -- what is good for us.

I'm finding myself currently looking back and seeing the signs reflected on the road where an oppressive heat beats down and causes the signs to gleam in reverse off the pavement. I look at where I am and see how lost I truly am. I'm standing in the center of what looks like an oasis village, and yet I know what it really is. I've known for a while, I just haven't admitted it to myself.
It's a mirage.
That promise of security and balance is an illusion, and as much as I crave those two stabilizers I know I was made for more. I'm not one to run back out into the desert down unknown roads without drawing myself a map first, but I'll be damned if I settle in this little pocket of life and accept it as my one and only inevitable future. The water was soothing at first; now it's growing stagnant and wretched. I'm tired of trying to boil it and tossing in a few additives to make it more palatable.
I don't want palatable. I want savory, sweet, exotic, surprising, and I want it assaulting all my senses.

I'm going to start my own map, watch for the important signs, and build my own road out of this mirage. Anyone who wants out of theirs, let's build that road and head down it together.

If It's Been Done Well, Leave It Alone

*deep breaths before diving into a hot button issue with me*

Articles and speculation about adapting classic literature (and literature in general) always draw my attention and, sometimes, my ire. I am not one of those Every Book Is A Holy Canon Which Should Not Be Altered For Screen people. I'm a writer, and I have flaws. I've written for the screen, and have flaws. No writer is perfect and no medium of expression is perfect in conveying what one medium already covered. My issues with adaptations are not rooted in that base problem, they are rooted in this: when one creator crafts a story and characters, it is the responsibility of someone later coming along to adapt that work to at least stay true to the overall tone and message of the source, as well as its characterization -- or change the g-d name! You change plot points? As long as we get to the same eventual conclusion, fine. You combine or omit characters? As long as it makes a stronger narrative and doesn't mess up essential moments in the story, fine. You alter a major character motivation, changing who they are on a fundamental level? NOW I have an issue, and my outrage will be rantalicious unless you give damn good support for your change or, you know, CHANGE THE G-D NAME. (Noticing a trend?)

My only other gripe with adaptation (and why I pretty much never take issue with Shakespeare films because he's the one writer out there whose work we never quite get right), is that once a well done, faithful adaptation is accomplished it's time to close the book, so to speak, and remove it from the realm of stories up for grabs. In my hasty youth, I didn't even extend this to previous film works. I thought, hey, if you can update a classic film well, then go for it! I've wizened and grown curmudgeonly in recent yeas, however, and now see the error of my ways. And if ever I need a reminder, I think of High Society (yeah, Hollywood was pulling that even during its Golden Age, so we can't heap all the blame on ourselves for the current state of stagnant original ideas). It's fine to have a vision of someone else's story in your head. If you're lucky enough to be allowed the chance to craft that story in another medium, then kudos to you -- you're already achieving one of my biggest dreams. Just... don't eff it up. And if you do and then someone else comes along later and hits the marks where you missed them, then at least you had that chance. However, if someone beats you to your dream (and I swear I will probably resort to every known tactic of undermining human success if this happens to me -- yeah, I can get competitive when I need to be), accept their success and find a new dream for yourself. The idea that once a good, faithful adaptation has been crafted someone else can come along with a new interpretation that will make the successful one shudder in shame is ridiculous. Improving a work from one medium to another is one huge accomplishment. Don't tempt fate by trying to improve the adaptation -- find something different or original to make, or CHANGE.THE.G-D.NAME.

What spurred my current eruption of emotion about adaptations? Well, it's been sort of a slow burn recently between varying reports of remaking IT, a clustermess of issues in season two of Game of Thrones (many of which end up as just sloppy storytelling -- and making strong characters into idiots), and culminating in the top news of this article about directors who were born for certain adaptations. The article itself is intriguing and has some interesting (and some, really, very safe) choices in the roster. What made my head do a Linda Blair was the news which sparked this article: that Guy Ritchie is doing an adaptation of Treasure Island.
Now, I don't necessarily doubt that the movie will be a fun romp with cool action sequences, quippy dialogue, and a sassy Long John Silver. There's just two issues with this equation. First, that concept is not going to end up being Treasure Island. Second, there already exists a near perfect adaptation of the book -- we don't need another.
Addressing issue the first: Guy Ritchie's already proven this is his MO with the Sherlock Holmes movies. Those guys bashing around the world solving mysteries are not Holmes and Watson. What Ritchie crafted is a set of cool Victorian buddy movies, with two men who happen to share names with and few characteristics of two of the most compelling characters in literature. You want to really see Holmes and Watson on screen? Watch the BBC series Sherlock. It's a modern setting, yes, but it IS Sherlock Holmes. I enjoy the movies, but I told myself about fifteen minutes into the first one that this was a Victorian buddy movie, not a Sherlock Holmes movie. In my head, I CHANGED THE G-D NAME, and then it was fine.
Now on to issue the second: already a near perfect adaptation of Treasure Island? Yep. I've never seen that... you think. No, you probably haven't. Yet it exists. It's a very good film, and it is one of the best examples in existence of how to adapt literature for screen. It's faithful to the tone, style, feel and majority of the plot. The characterization is spot on with a stellar cast. It's not a perfect movie, but Treasure Island is not a perfect book. It is however proof that when you maintain the core of a novel as your guiding star you can make not only a good film but a truly faithful adaptation of a work which deserves that treatment. Yet, people are still making Treasure Island... except no other adaptation I've seen really is remotely close to actually being Treasure Island, thus the crux of this whole entry: if you're going to keep remaking something and yet deviate drastically from the source -- CHANGE.THE.G-D.NAME.

Creating New Magic

AKA: Starting a New Journal

I wrote yesterday about the trials and process of dealing with the loss of magic in one's journal. Once you accept and mourn the loss of one, however, you must move on and discover the enchantment in another journal.

In some ways, choosing a new journal is more vital to me than saying goodbye to one whose magic is gone. I've always felt journals to be precious, magical devices capable of eliciting unencumbered creativity -- so long as you choose one which suits you as an individual. Weird, old-fashioned notion? Yup. Have I tried to break myself of that idea? Yup. Did it work? Hell no. Do I argue with my 'process' of selection anymore? Hell-to-the-no. It just drags out the ordeal, and it can be a long and daunting enough journey as it is. Until I reach a day where 'any old blank book' will do (and honestly, I kinda hope that never occurs), I'll keep to my list of qualifications.

1. Easily portable, but not tiny. I'll buy larger journals (and occasionally sketchbooks) on occasion, but they tend to be for special projects and seldom see use. In order for a journal to become an extension of my writing and creative habits, it's got to be able to fit easily into a medium-sized bag with all my other take it everywhere crap. 5x7 or less in size, but not too small because then it feels like I cannot put anything of decent length in it without having to turn a page every ten seconds.

2. Place marker. I don't care what style it is, or how fancy, I just need something to mark a place in the journal to which I will pick up next time.

3. Lines. I MUST have lines for writing in a journal. Blank pages are daunting enough, the lines provide the tiniest amount of structure in what I otherwise see as a terrifying blank canvas. Plus, it helps keep my furious writings at least barely legible (to me, anyway).

4. A durable cover. It doesn't have to be hard; it doesn't have to be leather. It just needs to be durable. This book will live with me for, typically, at least a year and that requires it to be able to withstand a lot of getting shuffled and bashed around.

5. Paper of decent thickness. I usually write with mechanical pencil, however at times I write with fountain pens in dark ink. I don't want my scribblings to bleed through to the back of the pages. That's a waste of valuable writing space and again can sacrifice valuable writing time to having to flip pages too often.

6. An overall design and construction that is comfortable. See above re: carrying this thing everywhere. The cover design/color must appeal to me. I dislike sharp corners or edges as I can press down pretty hard when writing and don't like cutting myself when I really get into a tear and write twenty pages in an hour. It also cannot be too heavy, again due to the necessity of carrying it with me constantly.

7. Instinct. This is, obviously, the one aspect I cannot describe with objectivity. So long as it meets the above qualifications the only reason I choose one journal over another tends to be because I just happen to see one and my internal compass points and says, "That one!" And no matter how many journals I find that meet the above requirements, I will not purchase a book that doesn't pull me to it. I need to feel the magic. It must hit me before I ever sit down and start a single word.

At times, this search for a new magic tome has taken weeks of seemingly endless toil -- hours spent in bookstores and on the interwebs hunting for a book that not only fulfills my requirements but reaches out to me, personally, and voices that it belongs in my hands, and mine alone. Thankfully, when I felt the magic draining from my now dearly departed Red, I happened to find a replacement without an arduous or lengthy search. Another clearance item, it beckoned me from an end cap display. The size and weight are perfect, the pages crisp, lined, and decently thick. It even bears a resemblance to a previous journal which my parents got for me as a gift and holds the majority of (the handwritten portions of) my first novel. Above all, the instant I laid eyes on it, I knew. It knew.
It put a spell on me, and now its mine.

I know I'm not alone in this, so what, gentle readers, are your requirements for a new journal/sketchbook/notepad?

When Journals Lose Their Magic

Writing, the act of actually putting a writing implement on paper, seems to be becoming more antiquated by the day. Yet there are still those out there who require at least some of our time spent writing to involve this act. For myself, there are times when not only is typing inconvenient (I have an outdated, though reliable, laptop that does not accompany me everywhere, nor any tablet device -- but I ALWAYS have a pen and a notepad), it lacks a certain connection to the material I create.
I've always been a hands-on creator. I draw. I paint (very poorly). I play piano (or could, once upon a time). I make jewelry. I put together shelving units and desks with the 'help' of the horribly illustrated diagrams of do-it-yourself furniture. I cook -- and while I don't always enjoy getting my hands seeped in ground meat, or chicken guts, or sticky doughs, I understand  and accept it's a part of the process of crafting meals.

The difference between crafting in those other mediums and writing, for me, is that when I get a notebook or journal to write in, I'm not only picky about the ingredients (as I am with any creative project), I also reach a point where those ingredients which shaped my need for the journal lose their power. The whole journal loses its power and ability to spur on my writing. In short, the journal loses its magic.
Yet I cannot bring myself to simply toss aside the book as if it were remnants of silver wire, or a broken cerulean pencil, or an extra wing nut that doesn't fit onto any conceivable part of the rolling shelf unit. I know many who use journals and sketchbooks feel the same. The desire to hold on to the physical evidence and memory of what once inspired you is too strong to discard.
However, this time around I've used the same journal for just over three years and while there are still probably 80 usable pages remaining, I noticed a couple months ago that every time I reached for it, opened it, any creative impulse I had disappeared. The book itself lost the power to draw me into it and furiously write down my inspirations in an encapsulated red-covered parcel of paper. It infuriated me not just because I don't like wasting paper, but because I felt that I had betrayed this loyal companion.
This books contains notes from my time on the Artistic Management Committee at my theatre. It's got the first piece of fanfiction I began that doesn't make me feel like fanfic is a derogatory form of writing. It contains tax calculations, shopping lists, career coaching notes and oh yes, dozens upon dozens of pages filled with writings from two of my (currently) four in-progress novels. How does something that contains that much of your life, that has been the keeper of important notes, dreams, creative bursts you never imagine, suddenly transform one day into a dull collection of pages where each time you set your writing utensil to a sheet of paper all your desire to write melts away?
There's likely some psychological time+overuse=meah-related explanation for it that relates to the amount of time and energy you invest into it and one day your brain just no longer relates to that object as the receptacle of such things. I, however, surmise it thus: one day the magic dies -- whatever you wrote in that journal still carries import, and always will, but the days in which your mind pours itself onto those particular pages is over  -- and until you accept that, put the journal to rest, and find a new receptacle, your ideas will become stagnant and uninspired (if the ideas ever deign to come at all).

So yeah, the other day I posted about my brain missing. And it is still, to an extent, but I have had to force myself to come to terms with the idea that part of my lost mind is due to going far too long without physically writing. I need that type of release for my thoughts and ideas, and by clinging to a magic-less book for too long I allowed that part of my mind to run off in search of I know not what.

Here's to my red journal. I found it in a Borders on clearance for $6 in the early spring of 2009,  and it has served me ever so faithfully. Within it are words I might never have written had I chosen another journal at the time. It grieves me to let go of something that once inspired my mind in new and exciting ways. A part of me will feel lost without it. However, a much larger part may lose itself forever if I do not accept this loss and endeavor to rekindle the magic in a new journal.

Stay Tuned!

New, interesting, thought-provoking, occasionally ranting, sometimes fangirling posts coming REALLY soon. 

Just as soon as I find my brain.

Which will be very soon.

I hope.

I mean, it was here recently. I have a dim recollection of having amazing ideas for posts, and articles, and the drive to complete them.

Enter debilitating invisible illnesses rearing themselves for a week and POOF! my brain went into hiding. I now have the attention span of a four year old on pixie stix. I can barely finish a coherent thought let alone...

Have you noticed how incredibly hot and talented and all-around-geeky Tom Hiddleston is? Classically trained Super Actor who refers to Loki as 'cray cray,' gets himself memed all over the interwebs (Loki'd!), and will either rap Will Smith's "Miami" or recite monologues from Henry V on command.

Oh, and then there's this:

What was I talking about?
Ummm...
Oh yeah, I'm going to see APOCALYPTOUR in less than a week. Which might help get songs from Holy Musical, B@man out of my head... or just embed them deeper. *shrugs* Still doesn't make me regret having Supersnoop saying "You got a phone call, motherfucker," as my ringtone.

Wait... that wasn't what I was talking about...

Oh. Yeah.

Brain missing.

Hopefully not for much longer...

Immortals is ETERNAL

As a movie experience, it seemed never-ending. However, that probably had to do with the fact that a minute into it I had to start live-blogging the whole film. So two hours of never ending cheese turned into about four and a half. Still, here are the fruits of my labor. If anyone actually gets every reference in here, I will personally donate ten dollars to the non-profit cause of your choice. Seriously.

Making Titans into a foosball set = worst marketing ever.

The movie opens with an ancient, less spacey-wacey looking Pandorica containing foosball warriors. The box is guarded by either weeping angel statues or trolls turned to stone. Or maybe the quadruplet love children of the two. A mysterious figure sends a sparkly arrow into the foosball Pandorica and in this first minute we know this movie will focus on cool visuals that will likely serve no real purpose.
 

Cut to the girl from Slumdog Millionaire waking up, panting, flanked in bed by three other ethnic ladies. Frieda, she is an oracle and the others are apparently the rest of Destiny’s Child to her Beyoncé. She woes about the foosball warriors (aka Titans) being set free by a magic arrow loosed from Legolas’ Sparkly Bow, and a four way hug ensues. 

Lest you think I make any of this up...

The Great Dragon* VOs over the titles and there’s a pictograph motion comic trying to happen here, but without Merlin to look puzzled and/or angry about the story it doesn’t really make sense.

Post picto-intro, we’re introduced to King Hyperion and his army who are trying to break up Destiny’s Child’s quadro-hug. We know Hyperion is evil by his size, his mask, his spiny armour, his gravelly tone, and his propensity for making bad puns while torturing priests. Also, it’s Mickey Rourke. 

Scarred face: Check. Spiny gold armor: check. Insane past: wrote the book

 Meanwhile, in some tiny insignificant fishing village on a cliff, the Great Dragon harps on Superman for his inadequacy in hacking wood while sermonizing about protecting the weak. Superman makes weird spear jokes with his mom, who has just returned from a prayer meeting where everyone calls her out on being a whore with a Kryptonian son, and everyone is uncomfortable. Said spear jokes are made more awkward when the next cut reveals Superman sleeping in the same room as mommy dearest. They are both awoken by the Sound of Drums (no, not those drums, sadly), and Superman must leap shirtless from his bed and spearfully run off to discover why the noise. 

I am a poor, shirtless man with a spear and I demand respect for my life choices!

Shirtless Superman holds mummy close as the general captain of the tiny fishing village full of buff soldiers have the situation man-splained to them. Hyperion bad. Oracle taken. Village must evacuate. An angry pre-hybrid Klaus pulls the generic redshirt ‘we’re all doomed’ routine but is quickly pulled away by some compelled fangirls. 

Hey girl, I heard you like immortality. Playing in Immortals wasn't enough for me. I'mma become one.

During the evacuation, typical class distinctions divide the villagers. Superman’s shirtlessness and overt attachment to mom mean he must wait an extra day with the social lepers and mouth breathers before following those with more money for shirts and less oedipal attachments. Superman takes issue with this, as well as with being called a WatersSnowRiversStone and a fight breaks out. Before Superman can pwn the day and rid the movie of Redshirt Klaus, the general captain promises Superman capable soldiers to escort the poor, oedipal, mouth breathing bastards. Superman is offered a place in the manly, breastplated army, but turns it down so he can go back to hugging mom.**

Emo Redshirt Klaus recovers from his near-skewering by gazing gloomily into the distance and sketching Superman being forced to watch other men hug his mom. The general captain sees these sketches and kicks Emo Redshirt Klaus out of the army and into the not so loving arms of the mouth breathing social lepers.

Meanwhile, Superman tries to convince the Great Dragon to leave the village before the giant spiny tortoise that is Mickey Rourke attacks. The Great Dragon refuses on the grounds that only a dragonlord can make him leave and a dragonlord Superman ain’t. He then tries to impart some wisdom to Superman, but as it has nothing to do with spears or his mom, Superman just looks puzzled.

Mom wants grandkids, but I'm not supposed to sleep with her to get them? I don't understand.

A couple of redshirt soldiers nibble around a fire with some exposition chatter until Rebellious Emo Redshirt Klaus skewers them all to ensure his eventual redshirt death is meaningful. As he pushes the final guy off a cliff under a full moon, a wolf howls in the distance (no, really) and Rebellious Emo Redshirt Klaus begins plotting on how to become a hybrid.

The Great Dragon can obviously radiate heat since he no sooner snorts out candles than he transforms into Zeus: The Hottest Lady Loving God Ever. (Now how do we get that transformation to happen on Merlin?!?) Athena pops out from her disguise as a naked statue and Zeus reveals he’s been masquerading as Superman’s mentor because he admires the Kyptonian’s courage, strength, and devotion to his mummy. The world needs an oedipal Superman to defeat the Spiny Tortoise and lo! this one is even shirtless.

King of the gods? More like King of My Ovaries.

Elsewhere the Spiny Tortoise’s army prepares to war on the tiny insignificant fishing village on a cliff while one of the soldiers roasts marshmallows under an iron bull’s nuts. (I don’t make this shit up.) Traitorous Rebellious Emo Redshirt Klaus questions the soldier’s culinary skills and thus is shoved by an early crafting of Gendry’s bull helm (supposedly this is the Minotaur, but the SFX budget was apparently blown on sparkly arrows), then down to the Spiny Gravelly-Voiced Tortoise’s lair where he is forced to kneel in front of a bright red lamp for dramatic effect and foreshadowing. 

This lighting really highlights my sanguine personality.

They Kurtz their way through a conversation wherein Rebellious Emo Redshirt Klaus tries to convince the Spiny Tortoise (who’s eating Renly’s peach, btw) of how important the tiny insignificant fishing village on a cliff is to the world, but all Kurtz Rourke wants is Legolas’ Sparkly Bow. Beyoncé, she knows where to find it, but no one will tell him where she at. Kurtz Rourke nonetheless deems Traitorous Rebellious Emo Redshirt Klaus too pretty to kill yet, so he uses his powers of evil (aka his quiet, gravelly, somber timbre and personal servant, Gregor Bolton) to gash up TRERK’s face and make a Reek out of his male anatomy. 

In the morning, Shirtless Superman goes in search of the Great Dragon with his spear, but finds only a flashback to his childhood: whacking a tree with a stick while the Great Dragon philosophizes about finding one’s rhythm. Back in the now, the Great Eagle soars overhead on its way to Mordor or Orthanc, and Shirtless Superman knows this is a sign that Winter War Gregor is coming. Sure enough, the remaining villagers are being skewered by the Bloody Mummers and Shirtless Superman must spear his way to mommy. The special effects do most of the work and just to solidify Shirtless Superman’s impotence, he is netted by Gregor’s group while Kurtz Rourke slits mommy’s throat wearing a helm that is obviously part of a bronzed lobstrosity killed on the shores of Mid-World. Rather than kill Shirtless Superman, Kurtz Rourke saves him to work in the salt mines – so he can serve some real men, if you catch my drift…

Roland Deschain ain't got nothing on me, mothereffers.

Up in the shirtless heavens, the gods talk about having ethics and morals, but Zeus the Bard maintains they must all keep those feelings in check lest this movie turn into an episode of Xena. His outdated reference is lost on his pouty-lipped children and they whine about what could happen if Kurtz Rourke obtains Legolas’ Sparkly Bow. Frustrated that no one got his Xena reference, Zeus threatens death to any god that interferes with the humans.

Later, Zeus had a quiet cry because he still misses Iolaus

Shirtless Superman stumbles through a desert in chains with a giant piece of wood. He and his fellow wood-toting prisoners are herded toward an enclosed oasis tower with its own spa and recording studio. Beyoncé trips over Sweaty Shirtless Superman, causing a vision of him holding Legolas’ Sparkly Bow, bromancing with Kurtz Rourke in a rickety boat trying to surf tidal waves. She mutters some cryptic bootylicious speak before adjourning to the spa waters where she is hit on by Stephen Dorff. She then goes back and drips water from her mouth into Sweaty Shirtless Superman’s and the spread of who knows how many germs is apparently supposed to look sexy. 

It's all sexy time until someone catches an incurable disease.

That night, the girls perform a death-apella version of “Bootylicious” for the guards and in the building mass grave confusion send Beyoncé off with Sweaty Shirtless Superman, Stephen Dorff, and a mute priest who was tortured by Kurtz Rourke’s bad puns. Bonding around the escapee campfire, Sweaty Shirtless Superman sniffs out Beyoncé’s clairvoyance and they share a mutual pout over their woeful lives. Beyoncé, she can never have sex or her hideous visions of the future will disappear, and Sweaty Shirtless Superman will never get to sex up his mom to give her the grandchildren she always wanted. And don't even get them started on their options for Yule Ball dates. They are in such a pickle.

Back with Kurtz Rourke, the rest of Destiny’s Child is being rape-talked into giving up Beyoncé, yet they pull a Spartacus and all claim to be her. Kurtz Rourke doesn’t like any of this, so he won’t put a ring on it.

Back at the escapee camp, Shirtless Superman takes offence to Beyoncé being called a whore, but is perfectly willing to abandon her in his quest for revenge. Stephen Dorff, meanwhile, wants to head down south to the ladies, and head south on Beyoncé. 

Horny Stephen Dorff, oedipal Superman, Beyonce, and a mute priest... humanity is doomed.

The gods watch as Shirtless Superman and his band of redshirts Superfriends try to liberate a ship to carry them all to the lair of Kurtz Rourke. All looks bleak until Poseidon, tired of stroking his trident all day, swan dives with a triple Lutz into the ink sea and kicks up a tidal wave. This saves the Superfriends and destroys their enemies… along with all the ships and any chance they have of gangbanging Beyoncé on their way to Kurtz Rourke. She cockteases them all by using the one spring of non-ink water to shower under. Oily Shirtless Superman asks Beyoncé for a vision, then verbally bitch slaps her when she relates the one she had with him holding Legolas’ Sparkly Bow, bromancing with Kurtz Rourke in a rickety boat trying to surf tidal waves. Beyoncé retaliates with the power of faith through guilt and tells Oily Shirtless Superman if he wishes his mommy everlasting peace, he better bury her. Because can you imagine the mess if she became a zombie and then he got his full Oedipus on?

Meanwhile, Gendry stokes the coals under the iron bull while the Bloody Mummers bring puppies to Kurtz Rourke, hoping it will ease the news that Beyoncé and the Superfriends escaped them. Kurtz Rourke sends Gendry after the Superfriends and decides the fun she is over: he is heading to Tartarus where the foosball Titans are stashed because, damnit, he’s a busy guy and that Sparkly Bow is just going to have to come to him.

Overcome by guilt and violin music, Superman returns home to bury his momma in the church where the other women called her a whore -- because she would want to be buried in a place of love and respect. While soliloquizing to her corpse about the family line, he punches the wall in sexual frustration, uncovering Legolas’ Sparkly Bow. Gendry quickly leaps from the shadows, before Superman can conceive of the Bow’s sparkly properties. Gendry then kicks Superman’s ass all over the rose petal strewn crypt. 

Don't insult Gendry's skill as a blacksmith...

Yet eventually Superman manages to bury Gendry’s cleaver in the back of his neck. Gendry dies on a bed of rose petals and then Superman decapitates him.

Superfriends Theology Chat Show is interrupted by an ambush from the godless as Superman struggles through the crypts, burdened by the weight of weaponry, Gendry’s head / helm, and his shirt. He emerges just in time to send magic arrows from Legolas’ Sparkly Bow into the throats of the Superfriends’ captors. The Great Eagle observes all as Superman pitches Gendry’s helmed head off the cliff.

The bow must have psychic arrows because Superman's form is TERRIBLE.

Shirtless Superman wakes up in his mom’s bed, his arm apparently poisoned by the antlers on Gendry’s helm. Or just an intense allergic reaction to having to fight in a shirt. Beyoncé tries to comfort him, but Shirtless Superman just wants to curl up in mommy’s bed alone… until she shows him how bootylicious she could be as a solo artist. Then they do it in mom’s bed. Bye-bye visions, hello flourishing solo career.

During their afterglow the next morning, Stephen Dorff swoons over them both as they embark for Kurtz Rourke’s lair. Kurtz Rourke, he ain’t there. He’s standing in front of The Wall as Traitorous Rebellious Emo Redshirt Klaus tries to convince him of the wildlings, grumpkins, snarks, and Others who live beyond The Wall. The reference is lost on Kurtz Rourke, so they press on toward the ‘gate’ of The Wall.

You know nothing, Kurtz Rourke.

At Kurtz Rourke’s lair, the rest of Destiny’s Child roasts in harmony inside the iron bull. Beyoncé cries convincingly at the site of their charred bodies still trying to stay together as a group. Superman and the Superfriends deliberately run into a pit ambush where Legolas’ Sparkly Bow is snatched by one of Kurtz Rourke’s puppies. They all look to be slaughtered until Ares flits down to rescue them and Athena shows up with magical galloping horses. Rescue and salvation are assured until a firework crashes down from the heavens and the earth trembles under the force of Zeus the Bard’s awesome abs (as well it should). He bitch-whips Ares into hades, then man-splains everything to Superman: bitch, you on your own – and don’t fuck this up. The Superfriends take off on the magic horses, following the Great Eagle to The Wall.

You get your ass to the Wall and sort out your bastard problems. Zeus out!

 

Meanwhile, rather than actually make progress, Kurtz Rourke fiddles with Legolas’ Sparkly Bow, frolics with puppies, and gouges out the eyes of his lookout.

A funeral, complete with Royal Wedding style hats, is held for Ares while Zeus the Bard weeps the hottest man or god has ever wept. 

Superman and the Superfriends arrive at The Wall to find not soldiers, but weak men, bastards, and thieves. They then realize why, vow of celibacy or not, no one finds honor in serving at The Wall anymore. 

Traitorous Rebellious Emo Redshirt Klaus and Kurtz Rourke have another convo about Superman, intercut with Superman and Beyoncé explaining to the current Lord Commander how Kurtz Rourke got a hold of Legolas’ Sparkly Bow. The Lord Commander, probably related to Janos Slynt, poo-poos any talk of Sparkly Bows, lobstrosity helms, grumkins, or undead wildling armies, and plans to negotiate with Kurtz Rourke in order to avoid fighting. On cue, Kurtz Rourke’s envoy shows up, demanding parlay with Superman Snow, and Beyoncé’s surfer bromance vision seems imminent. Kurtz Rourke hangs in the shadows (like he does) and parlays with Superman Snow, offering to be his daddy – no more bastardy, only the panicked squeals of the dying bodies piling up around their new happy family. Superman Snow spits on the offer and returns to The Wall and Superfriends, a proud bastard until the day he dies. Tomorrow, they battle!

Possibly rethinking this decision, that night Superman Snow mopes as he looks beyond The Wall, then reluctantly dons armour, becoming more than a shirtless bastard peasant. He’s now an empowered shirtless bastard peasant with Superfriends, who really aren’t that super.

We've got bastards, weak old men, and a self-obsessed pop star. The wildlings have Kurtz Rayder. We.are.fucked.

Kurtz Rayder prepares the wildling army for battle and, using Legolas’ Sparkly Bow, blasts a giant hole in The Wall. Woe is the Night’s Watch until Superman Snow inspires them by rapping to sword-on-shield beats. Everyone runs headlong into a tunnel fight where Superman Snow uses bootylicious moves to rack up a high body count. Somehow Kurtz Rayder slips up to the Lord Commander’s chambers and skewers him without a word. Negotiation fail. In the tunnels, Traitorous Rebellious Emo Redshirt Klaus shouts Superman Snow’s name to ensure his own skewering is meaningful. Finally free of this movie, he can start daggering his siblings so he can maintain his Traitorous Rebellious Emo attitude for another few centuries.

You think your mom issues are complicated? Mine turned my entire family into vampires, I killed her, and now her reanimated corpse wants us ALL dead. I gotta get out of this movie, Superman!

Kurtz Rayder manages to arrow the keystone of The Wall, starting a slow crumbling within the tunnels. Knowing they must escape or risk the most un-hot death of the crushed, Superman and the Superfriends rush upwards towards Beyoncé, and then beyond when she hardly acknowledges all their hard work and can only worry about how bad her hair looks with all this dirt falling on it. The battling heroes finally make it to where the foosball Titans are stored with their weeping angel troll guardians just in time to see Kurtz Rayder arrow them free.

Superman Snow is disoriented by the release of foosballers from their caged table and must remove his armour to sort it all out in his mind, unencumbered by the weight of anything on his chest. Stephen Dorff is actually being useful and has managed to get Legolas’ Sparkly Bow away from Kurtz Rayder. He waves it for Superman Snow to come retrieve when he is trampled by the foosball Titans for serving a real purpose. Superman Snow kneels in confusion, not understanding how any of this happened without him. Just when it seems all is lost to utter ridiculousness, the gods swoosh down, led by the immaculately chiseled Zeus the Bard, armed with Ares' giant hammer. (All right, I’m just going to say it: the hammer is his penis.)

They had to put him in the back so his 'hammer' wouldn't eclipse all else.

Zeus the Bard slams Legolas’ Sparkly Bow into oblivion with his hammer, then orders disoriented Superman Snow to go kill Kurtz Rayder so this movie can end already and Zeus the Bard can go live manly ever after, shooting arrows with Legolas. Superman Snow runs off and the gods have a smackdown with their foosball cousins. Zeus the Bard manages to gut and destroy four of them in three seconds with a random length of chain he pulls out from some cuffs on the wall. Yeah, that’s the king of the gods, bitches.

Superman Snow stumbles his way into Kurtz Rayder’s knife half a dozen times as the foosballers take out some of the lesser gods. Their deaths, although unseen by Superman Snow, give him the strength to start wailing on Kurtz Rayder and we jump cut the hell out of these two fights until Superman Snow’s multiple stab wounds finally make him dizzy and he must slow-mo down his fight.

Meanwhile, Zeus the Bard continues wrecking Titans with the simple, mortal crafted chain from the wall, and when one gets close enough to grab for his foot, Zeus the Bard slams that foot through the foosball Titan’s chest. Through. It. Just… sex me now.

Superman Snow is literally getting the seven bells knocked out of him (all right, I think the score only rang five bells) just as Athena gets skewered and Zeus the Bard ceases all badass chain fighting to be at her side. Badass warrior and loving family man – be still my heart. 

Now this is an incestual relationship I'd get in on, if you know what I mean

As she dies without ever getting to kiss her daddy, Zeus the Bard mournfully climbs on top of the Pandorica as his remaining kin fight for their lives. Using his fabulous pecs and arm muscles, he pulls down the entire mountain, collapsing it on himself, his kin, and the foosball Titans.

Meanwhile, Superman Snow has slow-fought enough and finally shoves Kurtz Rayder’s knife into our villain’s neck. Revenge complete, Superman dies.

Yet Zeus the Bard in all his awesome hotness manages to flash out with Athena’s body before sending the entire wildling army into the depths of Mordor under the crushing mountain.

Screw you guys, I'm going to Laketown to fight me a dragon!

Decade-ish Later Epilogue: The Great Dragon narrates a relief sculpture tale around Shirtless Superman Snow’s tomb as mama Beyoncé looks on. When Superman Snow’s own bastard son touches the 3-D lobstrosity helm, he sees visions of war. Not to fret, the Great Dragon in flesh is there to impart cryptic futures to the boy. Beyoncé’s been too busy getting her nails done to overhear, but calls her son away when she sees the Great Dragon within kissing distance of her kid. Superman Snow’s bastard closes his eyes to visions of his daddy and Zeus the Bard rocking it in the heavens with a new army of gods and Superfriends.

And they all lived violently ever after.

I don't even have words for this silliness...

* Yes, I am fully aware of John Hurt’s long and varied career, but the presence of magic, VOs, and the character’s penchant for imparting wisdom the main character doesn’t understand lends itself to Merlin references.

** I searched and searched for images of how creepily close Theseus and his mom get, but to no avail. Trust me, though, it's like there's a neon sign above the two flashing 'oedipal relationship' the whole time. 


And, if you couldn't tell, I'm kind of madly in love with Luke Evans.




I meant what I said about the donation. The first person, if such an one exists, to cite every reference will be granted a $10 donation to the non-profit of their choice. I would say no cheating by google-pedia-ing, but it's for a good cause, so I DO NOT encourage it but it's not like I can stop you.