Chadzilla ROARS!!!

Invictus (2009)

Clint Eastwood's Invictus will probably be best remembered as the "other" black/white sports drama of 2009.  The one that got ground beneath the cleats of the more popular black/white sports drama of 2009, The Blind Side.

On the surface, it is easy to see why.  Invictus is about rugby, a sport that the United States does not know all that well.  The Blind Side is about American football, a subject many in the United States are quite passionate about.  Invictus is yelling "BARRACUDA!" Huh, what?  The Blind Side is yelling "SHARK!"  Stampede!  Thank you, Mayor Vaughn.

Beneath the surface, however, is something a bit more troubling that no one would want to admit.  The Blind Side is also about how rich white people save a poor black child from a life of poverty and crime (among his "own kind").  Invictus is about how a nation's first black President (Morgan Freeman, doing an Oscar worthy Nelson Mandela impersonation) brings a bitterly divided country together merely by suggesting to the nation's rugby team captain (Matt Damon) that it would be good for national morale if said team were to win that year's World Cup. 

The Blind Side plays to white guilt and allows us white people to feel good about how noble and generous we are.  Invictus does the exact opposite.  It shows how a noble and generous black man forgave the nation that kept him a political prisoner for over twenty years, then used its predominantly white sports team (and symbol for that nation's past political crimes) to bring everyone together to root for something as a single and, albeit temporarily, undivided nation.

One film shows blacks in positions of weakness (poverty, drug addiction, crime, etc.) while the other shows them not only holding positions of power, but doing so intelligently.  In a just world the barracuda would perform just as well as the shark, but the world has never, ever been just.

Setting the comparisons and commentary to the side and looking at Invictus on a strictly technical level, producer-director Clint Eastwood could very well qualify for another Oscar directing nod.  (I am quite sure that the thought did occur to him when he chose this particular project, it has Oscar Bait written all over it.)  He gets strong to solid performances from his cast and, for the most part, Eastwood avoids becoming too emotionally manipulative.  Although a sequence where Damon's character visit's the President's former prison cell does drift from strong to needlessly overpowering.

While a lengthy film, Invictus does not feel long in a bad way.  The rugby sequences generate an adequate amount of excitement and tension, especially during the final, critical game of the World Cup, despite the team's eventual victory being a foregone conclusion.

But the film's greatest stength is in its quiet dignity and its firm assurance that healing is possible.

Three stars out of four.

Classic Battlestar Galactica Volume One - by Rick Remender (writer) & Carlos Rafael (artist)

Before the Galactica and the rag tag fleet of survivors it is protecting ventures out into uncharted space, they make a brief stop at one of the outer most planets in the colonial system.  There they hope to find a book that may contain valuable information regarding the possible location of the 13th colony, Earth.

What Apollo, Starbuck, and Boomer find is a heap of Cylon trouble, and some human survivors in dire need of rescuing.

If you are in the mood for some lighthearted (or, perhaps, lightheaded) space opera entertainment, stuff unencumbered by thought provoking social or political commentary, then Dynamite's Classic Battlestar Galactica book is bound to satisfy.  The first volume of this comic book expansion on the original Battlestar Galactica is packed with plenty of action (space battles, gun battles, and even some fist fights) and, at the appropriate times, humor.  (No matter how dire the situation, Starbuck is always good for a comical comment.)  Your brain will not get any serious food for thought in this book, but it will not be bored.

Writer Rick Remender (Night Mary, a personal favorite of mine) knows that the goal of the original Battlestar was not to challenge its viewers, but to simply entertain them with its space opera take on the book of Exodus.  His story captures the tone and spirit of the show, perfectly.  Fans of the original Battlestar Galactica (I cannot get my head around the "Classic" moniker for such a tacky show) will find much to enjoy, but fans of either Star Trek or Star Wars will not find anything worth leaving their own expanded universes for.

New Comic Book Day (12/16/09)

Nothing new, so I picked up two I missed: Creepy #2 and the Dr. Horrible one shot. Until next week.

All We Ever Wanted Was Everything - by Janelle Brown

On the day that his company posts a record IPO, Paul Miller informs Janice, his wife of twenty-eight years, that he is leaving her.  Overwhelmed by grief and anger, Janice hides in a drug induced haze of denial.

Margaret, Janice and Paul's eldest daughter, has not only been dumped by her fame craving actor boyfriend, but, thanks to losing on a risky financial gamble, has also free fallen into bankruptcy.

Lizzie, Janice and Paul's youngest, and somewhat neglected, daughter attempts to get the attention she thinks she wants by engaging in promiscuous activity at school.

Hunkered down in the Miller home, Janice, Margaret, and Lizzie are in for a long and painful summer of self-discovery.

Lucky for me, Janelle Brown's debut novel All We Ever Wanted Was Everything is not a long and painful read.  But it is a long and soapy one.  So soapy, in fact, that I began to think I could clean my hands simply by holding the book in them.

The positive reviews that I have read for the novel refer to it as a satire.  While I found sections of the book humorous, they were few and far between.  For satire to work, I think, the read must have some knowledge of what is being satirized.  I know precious little about the lifestyle of the Santa Rita, California ultra-wealthy (and, for once, I am very happy that I am ignorant of such a shallow, trite, and mean-spirited way of life as the one described in this book) so a great deal of the humor was lost on me.  The only portion of the novel that I related to, being a recovering Evangelical Christian, were the moments involving Lizzie's attempt at finding friends and kindly authority figures at an Evangelical church.  That was a spot on bit of satire.

The book was also very well written, with strong characterizations and a plot that kept moving and kept me wondering what would happen next, and how bad would it be.  That was enough to keep me from disliking the book, and there was a lot in it for me to dislike.

I have had enough personal experience with chemical dependency to know that Janice is given way too easy of an out from her addiction.  That Brown looks away from Janice's withdrawals when she decides to kick her drug of choice, rather than give her soon to be ex husband a legal upper hand, simply adds insult to a narrative injury.

Having been bankrupt, I also lost my struggle to care one bit about Margaret's self-induced financial plight.  I also spent far too much time around hypocritical and self-absorbed "feminist" types like her while attending San Francisco State University to ever want anything more than for her to stop feeling so goddamn sorry for herself, stop resenting her parents (and hating her mother) for living a lifestyle that she did approve of, and to just grow the fuck up, already.  "Pardon my French."

At least Lizzie, being fourteen and lacking a strong authority figure to help her with her adolescent problems, has a suitable excuse or acting like an immature brat.  She is one!

Now if all of these characters struggles went somewhere meaningful, the book would be far better than the moderately entertaining, albeit very readable, diversion that it is.  But they do not.  Salvation comes at the last minute, via a deus ex machina, and no personal growth or serious re-evaluation of lifestyle or life choices occurs.  At least none that truly satisfied me.  There were hints, but I wanted something more than the Three Millers getting through a difficult summer with their insanely huge portion of the family fortune intact.

Happy, happy, joy, joy.

Two Days, Four Shows: My First Weekend Visiting Broadway

Last weekend I made my first ever trip to Broadway, with my lovely fiancee acting as personal tour guide.  (She makes the trip regularly.)  We did not go to sight see, although we did stroll around Times Square, Rockefeller Plaza, and walked right past Radio City Music Hall.  We went for the express purpose of seeing theater, and what theater it was.

We arrived Saturday morning and the first show I caught was a matinee performance of The Toxic Avenger, a musical adaptation of Lloyd Kaufman's cult classic movie (described by one character as something "that most people have seen while stoned," which is probably the best way to enjoy it) is respectful of its 1984 source material and honors its politically incorrect and vulgar humor.  So much so that I sat there wondering about all the parents that had brought their kids to see it.  (What the hell?)  Sure, the musical is cartoonish and playful, but there are severed limbs, heads, and various internal organs tossed about with gleeful abandon.  There are also quite a few sexually graphic moments, and the language is on the salty side.

Needless to say, but I loved every second of it and would gladly watch it again in a heartbeat.  The songs were terrific (the Springsteen parody "The Legend of the Toxic Avenger" and the one person duet of "Bitch/Slut/Liar/Whore" being two of the most memorable standouts, but the show's heart glows through the almost tear inducing "You Tore My Heart Out") and all the performances top notch.  The Toxic Avenger should become this generation's Little Shop of Horrors (stage version, of course) and no genre fan will want to miss it. 

Next was an evening performance of God of Carnage, the play that I had been most looking forward to seeing.  My expectations were not only met, but surpassed.  The play is brilliant.  On its surface the plot sounds simple, the parents of two children that have been involved in a violent altercation at a local park meet to discuss what happened.  The talk, however, slowly spirals out of control, until utter chaos breaks out on the stage.  Christine Lahti, Annie Potts, Jimmy Smits, and Ken Stott were all wonderful.  Author Yasmina Reza, who also wrote the equally fascinating Art, is fast becoming a favorite playwright of mine.

Sunday started with a matinee performance of A Steady Rain, the play that actually got me motivated to make my very first trip to Broadway.  Being both a Bond fan and something of an on and off comic book geek, there was no way that I could pass on the chance to see Daniel Craig (the current James Bond) and Hugh Jackman (Wolverine) on stage together.  The play itself was only fair to decent (there is a plot development that pulled me out of the story and I never really managed to get back into it completely) but the actors, especially Craig, were fantastic.  They elevated the material to a level that, from reading it, you would not think it capable of reaching.

I closed my Broadway weekend with David Mamet's new play, Race.  Unbeknownst to me, it was the play's official opening night, so there was a red carpet and oodles of celebrities to ogle as they walked it.  Happy, happy, joy, joy.  The play itself is a challenging work about racism and racial politics.  In an article in Playbill, actor David Alan Grier (who performed, and performed quite well, alongside James Spader, Kerry Washington, and Richard Thomas) said of Race, "some will say it goes too far and some will say it doesn't go far enough."  I agree.  While nowhere near as good as God of Carnage, but far better than A Steady Rain, the play held my attention and the final line left me both breathless and eager to talk about the play, what it said, what it tried to say, and what it implied.  Unfortunately I was the only Mamet fan in the group, so I saw it alone and only had myself to talk with about it afterward.  Since I agreed with myself on all points, it was a boring conversation.

The weekend ended much too quickly, like so many very busy weekends do, and I returned home with reluctance.  Now that I have finally experienced the joy of Broadway theater, I am eager to return and experience it again.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly #1 - 5

The Man With No Name chases a $5,000.00 bounty into Mexico, only to become involved in a fight for a train loaded down with stolen gold.

Until its climatic showdown, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly has little to nothing whatsoever in common with the classic film that it takes its name from.  While it is clear that writer Chuck Dixon has done his genre homework (or at least watched the excellent documentary The Spaghetti West, as his Euro-western 101 essay in issue one covers the exact same ground without bringing anything new to the discussion) it is also quite clear that he has a preference for the work of Sergio Corbucci.  His story homages both Django and The Great Silence far more than it does The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

While this story arc (like its main character, it has no name) gets the look and feel of the Spaghetti Western, it was lacking something.  I was going to say characterization, but then I thought of the colorful cast of sadistic rogues that are splashed across the pages and knew that criticism was off.  Way off.

The story itself is also quite strong and, as I stated before, it does an excellent job of capturing the brutal amorality of the genre.  Esteve Polls' wonderful artwork and the topnotch coloring by Marc Rueda beautifully capture the stark desert landscapes in which the story is predominantly set.  (Although there is a brief sequence set in the snow, a clear reference to the above mentioned Corbucci film The Great Silence).  I could almost feel the heat rising up off the pages, smell the sweat of the men and their horses, and hear the music of Ennio Morricone warbling in the background.  The only thing that was missing in this book was a strong connection to it namesake, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.  

Then it came to me.  This nameless story feels like it belongs in Dynamite's other Spaghetti Western title, The Man With No Name.  While No Name's first story, Sinners and Saints, starts right where The Good, the Bad and the Ugly ended, making it a perfect starting point for this book; and THAT was my problem.  I felt like I was reading the wrong book!

Just as long as you do not crack open this book expecting to read about the further adventures of Blondie (the "Good") and Tucci (the "Ugly") I think you might be able to enjoy reading it without ever feeling that something is just a little bit "off."

New Comic Book Day (12/09/09)

This week's haul: The Good, The Bad and the Ugly #6, The Walking Dead #68, Hack/Slash #28 and House of Mystery #20.

Wormwood Gentleman Corpse #9 - 12: Calamari Rising (1-4 of 4)

"You haven't changed a bit, have you, Ethel?"

The Squidmen have tracked Wormwood down and begun invading Earth.  Things get violent, and funny, from there.

I am not inclined to spoil the off the wall surprises that are to be found in the Calamari Rising story arc.  Suffice to say, the reader learns a lot more about Wormwood's rather colorful background, faeries, and Elvis.  I also set the book down wondering if writer/artist Ben Templesmith really liked Jet Li's movie The One.

The Squidmen were set up as an apocalyptic threat (a frightening co-mingling of H.P. Lovecraft's Cthuthlu mythos and, depending on your preference, Star Trek The Next Generation's Borg or Doctor Who's Cybermen) in It Only Hurts When I Pee, and they give Wormwood and his crew quite a fight.  How that fight is concluded is another fine example of Templesmith's whimsical humor and vibrant imagination.

Other professional obligations have kept Templesmith from returning to the world of Wormwood Gentleman Corpse as frequently as I would like him to.  Pity, this is one of the best serio-comic horror adventure series out there.

Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009)

Wes Anderson's Fantastic Mr. Fox is a perfect example of why one must never assume that, just because a film is animated, it must be for children.  Not so.

Yes, Fantastic Mr. Fox is based on a children's book of the same name by Roald Dahl (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, James and the Giant Peach, etc.) and is chock full of delightful stop motion animation, the delightful anthropomoprhization of animals, and even a delightful good triumphs over evil happy ending.  But the film is also incredibly advanced in its characterization and humor.  Younger kids are simply going to be bored to death by Mr. Fox's mid-life crisis, his poor parenting, or the bird stealing as alcoholism metaphor.  (During one quiet dramatic moment, Fox admits that he "fell off the wagon.")

Adults and older kids should enjoy it, though.  I did.  The voice work is excellent, with Bill Murray (as a Badger that is also an attorney) and Willem Dafoe (playing a psychotic rat that is also a security guard) being the standouts, and the animation, as noted before, is a delight to see.

The story is a rather simple one.  After nearly dying, and learning that his beloved wife (Meryl Streep) is pregnant at the same time, Mr. Fox (George Clooney) reforms from his bird stealing ways and becomes a writer for the local wildlife paper.  Although comfortable, Mr. Fox is also bored.  So he moves the family to a more dangerous neighborhood (a tree adjacent to the three meanest farmers near the wood) and begins sneaking out to enjoy his old ways. The joy is short lived, for the three antagonized farmers soon begin hunting not only Mr. Fox, but all the other animals in the wood.  Animals that do not take kindly to having their lives destroyed by Mr. Fox's antics.

But, as Stephen King has said, it is not the tale so much as how the tale is told, and Fantastic Mr. Fox is told well.  Filled with gentle humor, interesting characterization, and building to an exciting and rewarding ending.  It might not become a children's classic in the way that the film adaptations of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and James and the Giant Peach have, but it will certainly become a popular cult movie.

Three stars out of four.

Star Trek The Next Generation: The Space Between #3: Strategy

Strategy is a distinct improvement over Captain's Pleasure and is the best story in The Space Between mini-series to date.

While mapping the Bandor system, a remote area that has just become a part of the Federation, the Enterprise comes under surprise attack by a strange warship of unknown origin.  (It appears to be pieced together from various different ships, but the engine that powers it is of Romulan origin.)  While the attack and counterattack are exciting and suspenseful, the story's real strength is the love triangle of Lieutenant Worf, Counselor Troi, and Commander Riker.  My favorite part is how the tension that results from Worf's being reprimanded by Picard for ignoring a director order from Riker (although Worf's doing so saves Troi's life) is followed through and resolved nicely in a later battle.  That resolution is both to true the characters and the spirit of Trek itself, as well as dramatically satisfying.  Unlike Captain's Pleasure, there is not a moment in Strategy that reads like unnecessary padding.

Writer David Tischman really delivered this time and Casey Maloney's art brings the rough and tumble action sequences to vibrant life.  So, let me repeat my short version opening paragraph: Strategy is the best story in The Space Between mini-series to date.  I can only hope that the ominous note that is struck at the story's end means that the villain of this tale will be returning at some point, in a future story.

The Blind Side (2009)

The Blind Side is a warm-hearted feel good movie about sports and family (not in that order) that never slips into the overtly maudlin.  Writer/Director John Lee Hancock, who has done this kind of story before, to very good effect, with baseball, in The Rookie, knows that using ham fisted emotional manipulations to tell Michael Oher's Cinderella story would not only cheapen its emotional power, it would also ruin it.  Do not get me wrong, there are moments in the film where I could feel my heartstrings getting tugged (one, where a hungry and alone Oher is seen picking up discarded popcorn bags in order to have something to eat, comes to mind) but Hancock's touch is deft and assured.  He does not smear the viewers faces with it, screaming, "LOOK, PATHOS!"

Sandra Bullock stars as Leigh Anne Tuohy, the no nonsense matriarchal leader of an extremely wealthy Memphis, Tennessee family.  One cold November night, while returning home from a Thanksgiving school play featuring her son, S.J. (Jae Head, who clearly enjoys taking precociousness to a whole new level) Leigh spies a poorly clothed Oher (Quinton Aaron) walking alongside the road.  She stops, confronts him, and learns that he has nowhere to stay, and that he had been heading to the school gym because it was the only place he knew that would be warm.  Following her heart, Leigh invites Oher into her family's home for the night.  Another night follows.  Then another, and another.

Soon enough, Leigh invites Michael (he really does not like being called by his nickname, Big Mike) to become an official member of the family.  "I thought I already was," he says, which, by this time in the film, is the exact same thing that most viewers in the audience will be thinking.

Bullock is clearly shooting for an Oscar nod with her performance as Leigh Tuohy, and I think she deserves one.  Her performance, although deeply rooted in the Grand Southern Lady acting tradition, never comes across as a forced or overtly theatrical one.  There is not a moment in the film, that I could see, where she looks to be struggling to communicate a challenging emotional nuance, and Leigh comes across as a real person throughout.  It's a fine performance in a fine family film, one that I look forward to seeing again, and sharing with my son.

Four stars out of four.

Halloween: 30 Years of Terror

While I was not all that impressed with Halloween: NightDance, I was impressed enough by the artwork and the obvious affection for John Carpenter's original film to take a chance with Halloween: 30 Years of Terror, a one shot anthology of five stories set in the Halloween universe.  Those stories are:

Trick or Treat: Ever wonder what happened when Tommy Doyle and Lindsey Wallace got to the Mackenzie's house and told them to call the police?  Or ever wonder what happened after they did?

P.O.V.: When Michael Myers pays a visit to 1991's Miss Haddonfield, the unlucky Beauty Queen loses more than just her crown.

Visiting Hours: As she waits for Michael's final visit, Laurie Strode wonders what might have happened if she had forgotten to drop off the keys to the old Myers' house.

Tommy and the Boogeyman: The premiere story from one of Tommy Doyle's favorite horror comics, Tarantula Man.

Repetition Compulsion: An elementary school teacher's advice on how to deal with Halloween fears does not stand a chance against the brutal reality of Haddonfield's Halloween horror, Michael Myers.

Three out of five aren't bad, but two are.  Let me get the unpleasant chore of discussing the anthology's two shortcomings before I move on to the three stories that make this one shot worth reading.  P.O.V. is just awful, a narrative free kill sequence that has nothing whatsoever to do with the Halloween series.  It could be a sequence from any number of Halloween knock-offs.  Jim Daly's artwork is impressive, especially when capturing the victim's terror and panicked struggle against the inevitable.  But with no background characterization or plot to give the event dramatic weight, it's just pouring perfume on a pig.

Somewhat better is Visiting Hours, a canonical yet semi-alternative history of Laurie Strode's attempt to reinvent her past run ins with her homicidal, not to mention indestructible, brother, pretending that they never happened, all the while waiting for him to pay his final visit to her.  (See Halloween: Resurrection, if you dare!.)  I liked how the image of Annie Brackett was used in the tale to represent reality and how Laurie kept apologizing to it.  "Sorry, I'm making a lot of mistakes today!"  The ending strives to be haunting and foreboding, but it just left me asking, "Is that it?"

Now for the good stuff.  Trick or Treat follows Tommy Doyle and Lindsey Wallace to the Mackenzie's house, where we are shown how the horrifying events of that night impacted the kindly old couple that lived down the street.  It starts off as a straight forward continuation of the ending of the first film, the couple even hear Loomis' gunshots, but then it moves into some surreal and disturbing territory.  I am thinking that it is left up to the reader's imagination whether or not Michael was actually there at the end, or if it was Old Lady Mackenzie that tampered with the candy.  The artwork for the story is top notch, Danijel Zezelj just nails the look and feel of Carpenter's film.  Michael's there and gone appearance in the window behind Old Lady Mackenzie while she calls the police being a perfect example.  Writer Stefan Hutchinson also uses the original film's opening trick or treat poem to good effect, as well.   

Repetition Compulsion, the final story in the anthology, has a well meaning elementary school teacher falling victim to Michael.  The murder is yet another mind game that Myers' is playing with Dr. Sam Loomis and his assistant, Marion.  Tim Seeley's artwork and Elizabeth John's colors ooze autumnal atmosphere and All Hallows' Eve dread, and the story's final images are simply stunning.  But what makes this story truly notable is just how effective Seeley and John get across the irony and brutality of the teacher's tragic fate.  A terrific close to a solid horror anthology.

But wait, there was one story that I have yet to mention, Tommy and the Boogeyman.  The title has nothing to do with the story, really, save for a needless wraparound where Tommy Doyle is chewed out by his angry wife for leaving one of his old horror comics where their young son can easily find it.  The real story is the comic book itself, TARANTULA MAN.  Every Halloween fan worth his or her salt should recognize the name.  Here the reader is treated to a wonderful homage to seventies comic book horror that really gets the tone, energy, and imagery down perfectly.  It is my choice for the anthology's best story and the primary reason why I am going to be keeping it in my collection indefinitely.

The Destroyer #30: Mugger Blood - by Warren Murphy & Richard Sapir

I have read enough novels in The Destroyer series to know that its satire can not only be politically incorrect, but that its predominant political viewpoint is an ultra-conservative one.  I have no problem with either, really.  I think the former is fundamentally necessary, as boundaries should always be pushed, sensibilities offended, toes squashed and some noses tweaked.  As for the latter, it is healthy to be challenged and I am old enough, and have grown wise enough, to know that it is oft times better to simply agree to disagree, and just walk away.  As long as I am entertained, it is all good; and The Destroyer series is very entertaining.  Even when it pushes the boundaries to the breaking point and crosses into territory that can offend; and that is precisely what happens in Mugger Blood.

To be blunt, the book is racist.

Whether or not the authors (and series creators) Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir are racist themselves is a debate for people who actually know (in the case of the late Richard Sapir, knew) them.  Art has a way of getting away from its creator(s) and becoming something that is both a representation of its creator(s) and something that is completely and utterly unlike its creator(s).

The edition that I read has an introduction by Murphy that briefly touches on the novel's possible genesis and how, after a lengthy list of all the ethnic groups that had been satirized or lampooned in the twenty-nine books that preceded Mugger Blood, that it was this particular book that some readers complained about.  Chiun himself then chimes in, dismissing the claims of racism and then explaining that all races are inferior to Koreans, and that all Koreans are inferior to the residents of the city of Sinanju, and that even the residents of Sinanju are inferior to the residents of the House of Sinanju.

Come to think of it, all are inferior to the single most glorious resident of the House of Sinanju.  All hail the Master of Sinanju!

While the one-two punch of serious discussion and satirical dismissal of the allegations of racism show that the authors have, at the very least, taken the comments about Mugger Blood seriously, by the midpoint of the novel, I was wincing, shaking my head and thinking/muttering, "Mythical-God, is this book racist!"

The set-up is straight forward, an elderly German woman is tortured to death in her Bronx home.  Well, there has to be some kind of brutal atrocity to capture the attention of CURE and to get Remo's ire up, yes?  Afterward, the building the unfortunate woman had been living in is demolished and all the rubble carted away for examination by the CIA.  Smitty then sends Remo and Chiun into the Bronx to find the alleged "super-weapon" that the Super Powers That Be believe to have been hidden inside the woman's home.  Also sneaking around are some Russian agents, one of which seems to be a dry run for the gun happy vigilante in Bay City Blast.  So far, so good.  In this area alone the book is a typical Cold War era Destroyer novel.

But then the corrupt Reverend Josiah Wadson (a parody of Al Sharpton) and the various street gangs that have taken over the Bronx and turned it into what looks like a bombed out war zone arrive to muddy the narrative waters with politically incorrect satire and biting social commentary.  That there were valid points to be found in both the satire and commentary is beside the point, for the racial stereotyping is so broad, and the lack of counterbalance so notably absent, that it seems as if all African-Americans are being made to appear as if they are nothing more than sub-literate animals that label any and all that confront or question their behavior as racist.  If Murphy and Sapir had taken a moment to show one person struggling to overcome the toxic war zone that the Bronx had become (to get an idea of just how bad it was, go out and rent the films Wolfen and Fort Apache, The Bronx, both were set and filmed in and around the kind of neighborhood that Mugger Blood takes place) then the book would not have left such a sour taste in my mouth.  But Murphy and Sapir did not do that, and Mugger Blood is a lesser reading experience because of it.

Star Trek The Next Generation: The Space Between #2: Captain's Pleasure

Captain Picard decides to take a week off and assist an old friend, Dr. Marjorie Devarona, at an archaeological site on Rajatha Prime.  The expedition takes a turn for the deadly when the wreckage of a centuries old Federation shuttle pod is discovered in the ruins, and a fortune in diamonds is found in the craft's cargo hold.

Can you say The Treasure of the Sierra Madre?  I thought you could.

My feelings on this issue's story are rather mixed.  On one hand, it is a fine Next Gen story; one that would make for a crackling good episode, if done properly.  On the other, it is not done properly, at all.

Writer David Tischman speeds through his narrative so quickly that his story feels perfunctory, and his plot "twists" do not come across as such.  They read as nothing more than the tired cliches of the "greed destroys all" morality play that they are.  The killer is easy to identify, the red herrings are introduced with casual disinterest and then underdeveloped, and the subplot involving Beverly Crusher disco dancing on the holodeck is pointless.

Yet, there was a part of me that liked it.  As poorly told as the story was, it was the kind of morality play that Trek excelled at.  What this issue needed was a stronger mystery (as I said before, the identity of the killer is easy to figure out), better developed characters in the supporting cast, and a greater focus on Picard's isolation from the Enterprise crew and the ever growing danger to him.  The story would have had space for all that if it had only cut out the parts where Beverly and Troi go disco dancing.

Disco dancing!?!  In the 24th century!?! 

Law Abiding Citizen (2009)

It says something that, while watching a man supposedly seek out "justice" against the system that wronged him, all I could keep thinking was, "How nice it is to see that Chief O'Brien from Star Trek the Next Generation and Deep Space Nine (a.k.a. actor Colm Meaney) is getting a decent sized role."

For those of you that have not seen the trailer, Law Abiding Citizen stars Jamie Foxx as Assistant District Attorney Nick Rice, a man who chooses the lesser of two evils when he allows a murderer/rapist to plea bargain out of the sentence he deserves.  Gerard Butler is Clyde Shelton, the man who witnessed the plea bargaining murderer/rapist commit those very crimes on his wife and daughter.  Shelton knows that the greater evil is getting the lesser, and getting away with murder.  Ten years after the plea bargain is struck, Shelton takes the law into his own hands and dispenses some righteous justice upon the man that managed to slime his way through the legal system.  But that is not enough for Shelton.  Not nearly enough.  Shelton also plans to show the entire justice system the true meaning of the word Justice.

That meaning is vengeance, plain and simple; although Shelton, with complete and utter hypocrisy, vehemently denies it time and again.

There were some other thoughts that ran through my head as I watched this movie.  The two most prominent being, "I am SO glad that the director is not showing that" and "This is getting ridiculous."  As to the former, there are several moments of brutal violence that I could have done without seeing and, thankfully, did so.  Save for one, but it is an important moment in the film.  It completely changes Clyde Shelton's "justice seeking" character and allows the audience sympathy to shift entirely from the wronged man to the film's true hero, beleaguered Assistant District Attorney Nick Rice.

As to the latter, let me just say that Shelton's ability to enact his ten years in the making master plan is nothing more than miraculous.  It requires not only a great tactical mind, which we are told he has, but also the ability see into the future and know exactly, precisely where a given target would be at a certain time, a certain location, and they they would be with the people that needed to see the justice meted out.  When a grinning Butler tells a glowering Foxx that his vengeance on the justice system will be "biblical," at that point I began to wonder if Clyde Shelton's middle name was, in fact, Yahweh.

Law Abiding Citizen is, like many of its genre, rather morally questionable.  It could have answered one, if not all, of those questions if, at one point, when confronting Gerard Butler's character about his Master Plan of Ultimate Justice, Jamie Foxx's character had said, "No one here wants to negotiate with a terrorist."  But he never does.

Two stars out of four.

Long Hot Summoning (The Keeper Chronicles #3) - by Tanya Huff

The third and, to date, final book in The Keeper Chronicles series starts with Diana, Claire's younger and more powerful sister, graduating from High School.  Immediately thereafter she becomes a Keeper and receives her first summons; to a shopping mall where someone (something, actually) has created a segue that will allow all manner of nastiness to creep over from the Otherside.

Although she is the most powerful Keeper of them all, Diana is quick to realize that she will need help closing down the segue and enlists the aide of Claire to do so.  But doing so is a lot more complicated than it seems, at first, and Diana and Claire have to overcome various obstacles - most of them silly, some of them spooky - before they can shut down the segue.

Tanya Huff's Summon the Keeper remains one of my favorite contemporary/comedic fantasy novels.  I thought that the second book in the series, appropriately titled The Second Summoning, was a fun read, just not quite as much fun as Summon the Keeper; Long Hot Summoning falls somewhere between the two.  It is more fun than The Second Summoning, but not nearly as much fun as Summon the Keeper.

There are two reasons for this, I think.  The first being that Summon the Keeper had a serial feel to it.  Although there was a primary story, there were also several secondary stories to keep things fresh and interesting, as well as Claire and Dean distracted.  Both The Second Summoning and Long Hot Summoning focus almost entirely on one story arc.  Of the two, The Second Summoning suffered the most, for there were no humorous distractions for Claire and Dean as they struggled with their post-coital relationship issues.  Granted, one would be more than a little performance shy if the power of the, uh, coupling summoned an angel into being.

Huff wisely keeps the obstacles somewhat lighter in Long Hot Summoning.  Dean and Austin are distracted by a life force sucking mummy, while Claire is off assisting Diana and Sam in saving the world from the segue; something that brings me to the second reason why both follow-up novels lack the comedic zest of the first book.

Claire, Dean, and Austin are no longer the primary characters in the series.  Diana and Sam (Diana's cat companion) are.  Sad to say, but the latter are nowhere near as interesting as the former; although Sam does have his moments, because he is a cat.

Perhaps it is my being a parent of a teenager, but I just found Diana far too irritating, irresponsible, and immature to really care all that much about.  I just wanted her to grow up and take her responsibilities as Keeper seriously.  Even worse is her budding romance with a teen turned Elf named Kris.  It is a romance without heart, for Diana and Kris do no have much chemistry.

Saving the book are its supporting characters: Claire, Dean, and Austin, as well as the above mentioned soul sucking mummy and her enslaved lover.  Then there is this Steve Irwin style archaeologist desperate to come to the enslaved lover's rescue, and a teenaged King Arthur archetype.  I could have read about them for another hundred pages, just as long as Diana was moved into the background, where she belongs.

2012 (2009)

I loved this movie. Loved, loved, loved it.  I loved every single minute of its cheesy over-the-top silliness.  Every time something awful happened, which was every fifteen or so minutes, I was grinning ear to ear and giggling like a kid.  I cannot wait to go out and see it again.

With 2012 (an epic end-of-the-world spectacle upon which all other epic end-of-the-world spectacles will, and shall, be judged) co-writer/director Roland Emmerich (Independence Day, The Day After Tomorrow) shows that he is the true Master of Disaster.  He has, quite possibly, made the greatest disaster movie of all time.  One that combines the best scenes from The Poseidon Adventure (or, at least, its remake, Poseidon), Earthquake, Dante's Peak, and The Submersion of Japan, to name but a select few.

Maneuvering through the rubble of the rapidly collapsing world is John Cusack, starring as failed novelist Jackson Curtis, who is attempting to save his family from certain death.  Through a string of contrivances (um, I meant to to write coincidences) Cusack/Curtis learns that governments of the world have been constructing arks in order to save a select number of people (i.e. those able to pay the one billion euros a seat ticket price necessary to help fund the project) and animal life.  As luck would have it, Cusack/Curtis just so happens to work for someone that has several tickets...

Racing against time, and from disaster to disaster, Cusack/Curtis and company proceed to out race an earthquake, out run a volcanic eruption, and out fly a gigantic cloud of toxic ash.  In their wake are gigantic tidal waves that flip over ocean liners and wash away whatever, and whoever, has not been crushed beneath rubble or buried under ash or molten lava.

It all defies logic, ignores physics, and is a complete and utter hoot to see.  Those expecting something with dramatic weight or some deep character study really need to see something else.  Those that just want to have a good time watching some people survive, or not survive, the end of the world; the really need to see 2012.

Three and a half stars out of four.

Just After Sunset: Stories - by Stephen King

As I nibbled away at Just After Sunset, I kept thinking about a comment that Stephen King made during an interview on the radio program Fresh Air.  He said, with his trademark candor, that he was very well aware that his creative hot streak was over, and that it would not be heating up again, ever.  The reason that I kept thinking about that comment was due to the fact so many of the stories collected in this book are tired rehashes of material King has done before, and far better.

The best two examples of just how cold that creative hot steak has become, came early in the anthology.  The Gingerbread Girl covers the exact same ground as Misery and the almost identical Lunch at the Gotham Cafe, while Rest Stop is just a bland and suspense free recycling of themes King explored to far greater effect in The Dark Half.  Other examples are the slight to the point of pointlessness Harvey's Dream and Graduation Afternoon.  Dream, with a little effort, could have been shaped into something more than the wasted opportunity that it is; but Graduation Afternoon, from start to finish, is the kind of tired narrative cliche one would expect from a High School student, not a seasoned professional of King's caliber.

Willa and Ayana are middle of the road disappointments.  The former is a ghost story that is far too heavy handed to achieve the emotional resonance it clearly is striving for, while the latter is a "miracle worker" fantasy that is far too light handed to satisfy.  The other middle of the road story is The Cat from Hell, a "Golden Oldie" from King's hot streak era that will be familiar to any that have seen Tales from the Darkside: The Movie.  It is an entertaining tale, both not a particularly memorable one.

The book perked up when I finally reached the suspenseful fantasy thriller, Stationary Bike, an enthusiastic "Fuck You" to all those pieces of exercise equipment (and exercise junkies) that are clogging up those ubiquitous Fitness Centers out there.  The Things They Left Behind packs the emotional punch that is missing from the above mentioned stories and is a great meditation on survivor's guilt and the need for "closure."  The New York Times at Special Bargain Rates is a fine little story that sits somewhere between Willa and The Things They Left Behind.

But the crown jewel of the book is N., which is, flat out, the collection's best offering.  A spooky slow burn of a nightmare that is a gorgeous narrative homage to Arthur Machen's The Great God Pan and the celebrated mythology created by H.P. Lovecraft.

Which leaves A Very Tight Place, the book's final yarn.  The less said about this nauseating story of a man forced to work is way out of the business end of one of those Port-O-Sans, the better.  It's disgusting, nasty, gross, and very well written.  Stephen King is every bit as sick in the head as he is talented, which is why I always look forward to reading him.  Make of that comment what you will.

Pontypool (2008)

"Sydney Briar is alive..."

Although Pontypool (currently available as a Blockbuster Video exclusive rental) is being marketed as a straight forward horror movie, and being reviewed as such, I am going to break with the rank and file and say that it is not a straight forward horror movie, at all.  Instead I am going to call it an utterly kick ass science-fiction thriller.  One that has been compared, in one particular review, to the early "body horror" work of David Cronenberg; a comparison that I agree with.  In many ways, Pontypool is to the English language what Videodrome was (and is) to television.

Those that go into Pontypool expecting some kind of traditional zombie horror film are going to be very disappointed, as it is not a traditional zombie horror movie in the slightest.  Pontypool, although its trailer is made to look it, is not a movie about people becoming infected with some kind of bizarre "rage virus" knockoff and then ripping people apart.  No, Pontypool is a movie about the potent destructive power of the spoken word.  The English language is the weapon here.  Not guns, or knives, or blunt force trauma inducing clubs, but spoken words.

Set exclusively inside of a talk radio station, with a "zombie virus" threat that is spread via infected words spoken in the English language, Pontypool is ninety-five percent talk and only five percent bloody carnage, if that.  It is sure to bore the living hell out of those expecting some kind of rehash of Dawn of the Dead (remake) or 28 Days Later.

A reaction that is not only unfortunate, but also quite sad.

Character actor Stephen McHattie (TV's #1 go to guy for playing steely eyed cops, crooks, federal agents, and/or assassins) stars as Grant Mazzy, a shock jock (and obvious fictional composite of real life shock jock Don Imus and conspiracy theorist commentator Art Bell) who has fallen from the big time, all the way down to the very bottom of the broadcasting industry: a small hole-in-the-ice radio station located on the outskirts of the town of Pontypool, in Ontario, Canada.  Angry and resentful, Mazzy cannot keep himself from spewing his anger out onto the airwaves in the form of mean-spirited "comedy" routines.  Something that has created tension with his producer, Sydney Briar (Lisa Houle).  Sydney knows Pontypool, literally as well as figuratively, and she wants Mazzy to know it as well, so that he knows the people he is talking to.  Mazzy wants none of it.  All he wants is out.

The day of the outbreak begins like any other, with Mazzy angrily mouthing off to listeners and Sydney trying to get him to tone it down.  Then a report of a riot at a local Doctor's office comes in over the air and, shortly thereafter, all hell seems to break loose.  Seems to, because there is no official information confirming what is being described by those who are calling in from the scene of what sounds like a rapidly escalating incident.  Soon they are trapped inside the station by the spreading "speech virus."

Screenwriter Tony Burgess, who adapted his own novel Pontypool Changes Everything, makes a wise and challenging decision to keep any and all blatant in-your-face George A. Romero style social commentary out of his story, so the exact nature of the "speech virus" is kept in the abstract.  It is not hidden in, or triggered by, any particular statement or code word.  It could be hidden in any English language word and the trigger is nothing more than simply understanding the infected word, in a particular context.

At first this idea seemed odd, almost laughable.  Then it occurred to me just how complex the English language (the virus is specially rooted in the English language and no other) and how so many words have multiple meanings.  Someone could hear a word in one context and catch the virus, but not know it.  Then that person would hear, or think of, that very same word in an entirely different context, and that would activate the virus.

Fascinating and challenging viewing, I cannot wait to watch Pontypool again, and again.

Three and a half stars out of four.

Star Trek New Frontier Book Four: End Game - by Peter David

Thanks in large part to DVD and Tivo, I can watch a fair amount of TV shows without suffering the hassles of having to watch broadcast TV.  I can also pick and choose when to watch an episode of a show, according to my own personal schedule, rather than having to adjust my schedule to catch an episode of a show that I do not want to miss.  I am also old enough of a show to remember even those pre-VCR days, when, if you missed an episode of a show, you could really and truly miss it; for it might not be rebroadcast, much less released for syndicated reruns.

While these changes in technology are a distinct improvement over my viewing options of old, I can still fall behind and miss out on "my shows," losing track of the serial threads running through the various characters and story arcs.  Which is what I discovered to have happened when I started tearing through End Game, the concluding chapter in Peter David's four part serial introduction to his popular, and ongoing, Star Trek TNG tie-in spin-off series, New Frontier. There were moments when I was just lost amongst all the political backstabbing and skullduggery, for I had allowed far too much reading time to elapse between installments. This really is a series that would be best enjoyed as one book, not as four separate ones.

The definite highlights in this chapter were the scenes involving Si Cwan and Zak Kebron in captivity.  I must admit that Kebron the Brikar has become my favorite character in the series.  The low points were the tiresome arguments over that pesky Prime Directive of non-interference (and the non-surprise that whether or not it should be invoked as a reason NOT taking action is an entirely subjective one, rather than an objective one) and the rushed and oversimplified manner in which the hostage situation that was The Two Front War's cliffhanger was resolved.

Then again, the book's climax features what appears to be a giant Anti-Matter Space Buzzard.  Something that David dubs The Great Bird Bird of the Galaxy.  It is impossible for me to dislike, and thus not recommend, a book that features a one-two in-joke.  Although I doubt that Peter David intended to make any reference to The Giant Claw. Or did he?

Capitalism: A Love Story (2009)

Call me old-fashioned, but I think that I should actually learn something whenever I watch a documentary.  I am of the firm belief that I should finish a documentary with a greater sense of awareness, understanding, or insight into whatever subject - be it an issue, a person, an event, or an art form - that is being examined.

Michael Moore's Capitalism: A Love Story did not tell me anything that I did not already know.  That the United States economic crash was the result of Common Sense being replaced with Greed.  That it had been 30 plus years of bad policy decisions in the making.  That a great many lives had been ruined because of it, and that the economic stimulus packages rewarded those that most well informed citizens consider to be responsible for this whole mess.  Regardless of where you get your news and information, or which political commentator you prefer to listen bleat over the airwaves, the above facts are not just self-evident, they are also simple common knowledge.  However, the source of news and information, and preferred political commentator bleating, does seem to be the motivator in deciding where the Finger of Blame should be pointed.

Since Capitalism is a Michael Moore documentary, it should come as a surprise to no one that Moore skews his sympathetic point of view to a select sampling of ruined lives.  We see numerous people losing their homes, some of which have been in their family for generations and is the only home that some have ever known.  While their plight is sad, and presented to us as tragic, Moore avoids such pesky necessities as letting us know the how and why of these victims getting into their horrible situations.  We are just supposed to feel sorry about their losing their homes and rage against the heartless corporations that have destroyed them.  Such blatant emotional pandering, without any context whatsoever, is both contemptible and an insult to the viewer.

Which is sad, since I think that Moore's film does, at times, present some valid, and even commendable, economic and political viewpoints that, if they had been presented fairly and intelligently, and with greater depth, would have cut past all of the needless political finger pointing and blame assigning and have given the viewer a glimmer of hope to focus on.  Those moments rip several pages from Jim Hightower's superior book, Swim Against the Current: Even a Dead Fish Can Go With the Flow.  I think that there is far greater reward in reading Hightower's book, than there is in viewing Moore's bitter polemic.

One and a half stars out of four.

Mistborn Volume I: The Final Empire - by Brandon Sanderson

For an epic fantasy that feels like it has been cobbled together from a variety of different sources (during one book club discussion one member described a pivotal moment as one character "going all Obi-Wan," and the Lord Ruler and his breeding program feel like something that was lifted out of God Emperor of Dune) Brandon Sanderson's The Final Empire reads fresh, thanks in large part to a likable cast of underdogs and several rousing actions sequences. The familiar yet tasty concoction moves fast and smooth, making this 643 page novel read as if it were 100 to 200 pages shorter.

Street urchin Vin has an unique gift for soothing the emotions of those around her.  A gift that is quite useful to the abusive con man that Vin's missing brother has left her a slave to.  But Vin's gift is so much more than what it appears to be.  She is actually an Allomancer, what some call a Mistborn.  Vin can, after ingesting them, "burn" various types of metals that gift her, depending on the metal being "burned," with increased strength, stamina, vision, hearing, and even some impressive telekinetic ability.

There is just one minor problem, Vin is a half breed.  The child of a coupling between a nobleman and slave.  That means certain death if she were ever to be discovered by those that wield the power of the Lord Ruler, a ruthless and apparently immortal dictator bestowed with the magical powers of a God.

The Lord Ruler has ruled for one thousand years and there are, among the slave laborers, those feel that has been one thousand years too many.  Vin becomes a key figure in one charismatic rebel's plan for overthrowing the Lord Ruler's "Final Empire" and bringing freedom to those that have forgotten it.

Okay, enough of the recap.  Sanderson, in addition to the aforementioned likable cast of characters and rousing action sequences, has also done a terrific job of world building.  The barren wasteland and ash cloaked city that are The Final Empire's settings read as if Sanderson were describing actual locations.  The cutthroat politicking that the nobility masquerades as a series of "frivolous" fancy dress balls, ones that Vin is required to infiltrate as a spy for the rebellion, has enough credible skulduggery to maintain a level of interest holding tension.

While I am on the subject of tension, Sanderson understands perfectly that a hero (or heroine) is only as good as the villain he or she must face.  The Lord Ruler is not the only evil in his Final Empire.  There are also the Inquisitors, a terrifying group of metal spike-eyed and torture loving sadists that seem to be every bit as indestructible as they are murderous.  Sanderson also understands that less is more and keeps the Inquisitors inexorable chasing down of the rebels to a potent minimum, so they never stop being utterly terrifying.  All of it makes for an exciting and suspenseful story that, despite being the first in a trilogy, builds to an exciting and emotionally satisfying conclusion.

A Princess of Mars - by Edgar Rice Burroughs

It has been awhile since I have read a book that has gone of its narrative rails as badly as Edgar Rice Burroughs' A Princess of Mars; the first story in the John Carter of Mars series and, according to the author bio at the back of the book, the very first novel that Burroughs ever wrote.

Boy, does it ever show.

A Princess of Mars is filled with all sorts of first time writer mistakes.  Telling instead of showing, needless info dump digressions that have nothing to do with what is currently going on in the story, and ham fisted deus ex machina contrivances that are presented as if they were startling plot twists.

I enjoyed the first two books in Buroughs' Tarzan series and was quite looking forward to reading this early space opera adventure.  But those Tarzan books were from a seasoned Burroughs at the top of his story telling game.  A Princess of Mars is Burroughs just getting started.

Despite the above listed narrative faults, there are some pulp delights to be found in the book.  Burroughs' imaginary Martian world is a vivid one, populated with all manner of delightful flora and vicious fauna, and his impressive skill at choreographing larger than life action scenes is easy to see, even at this, the earliest stage in his legendary writing career.

Burroughs did have me for most of the book, when Carter is a captive learning the ways of the brutal Thark, the Green Men of Mars.   That is when A Princess of Mars is basically a western set on another world.  But then Carter escapes, is recaptured by a different tribe of Green Men, escapes yet again and then sets off on a Wizard of Oz style road trip that leads to his becoming embroiled in a war between the two humanoid societies on Mars.  Burroughs piles far too many wild details upon wild details (atmosphere generators, aerial warplanes, etc) that the story becomes a jumble of stuff.  The reader does not experience the story, he or she is simply pelted with it.

By the end, though, I had learned what a tremendous debt the climax of Total Recall owes to A Princess of Mars.

Primal fear and Paranormal Activity

In the last few years I have managed to whittle down my description of the horror genre to a very simple and very universal general truth.  It is the fear, or terror, if done well enough, that results when the irrational intrudes upon the rational, and that is all.

Stephen King wrote the very same thing, albeit it in a slightly different manner, thirty-one plus years ago, in his foreword to his anthology Night Shift:

"At night, when I go to bed, I am still at pains to be sure that my legs are under the blanket after the lights go out.  I'm not a child any more but...I don't like to sleep with one leg sticking out.  Because if a cool hand ever reached out from under the bed and grasped my ankle, I might scream.  Yes, I might scream to wake the dead.  That sort of thing doesn't happen, of course, and we all know that.  In the stories that follow you will encounter all manner of night creatures; vampires, demon lovers, a thing that lives in the closet, all sorts of other terrors.  None of them are real.  The thing under my bed waiting to grab my ankle isn't real.  I know that, and I also know that if I'm careful to keep my foot under the covers, it will never be able to grab my ankle."

I'm much the same way.  I suffer from the same semi-irrational fear.  My adult mind knows that my and, more than likely, King's collective fear is rooted in the dread of having an actual intruder attack while we are asleep, when we are unaware of the danger that looms over us.  Oren Peli, Paranormal Activity's writer and director, understands this perfectly, for he enacts that familiar to us all nightmare scenario of something grabbing an exposed foot and yanking someone out of bed while she sleeps with gooseflesh inducing power in his film.  That scene, and the ones before it, as well as the final one that followed it, are nothing more than our most primal nightmares brought to life.

I understood that intellectually, when driving to the theater last night.  I knew that I would be seeing those primal fears of the dark and the unknown played out as entertainment.  Like King, I knew that what I would be seeing was not real (and, being an atheist, I do not believe that "paranormal activity" itself is real) but I was uneasy about seeing the film.  I was afraid, you see, that it would have a negative effect on me beyond simply getting me to the edge of my seat and nervously anticipating the moment when the next jump scare would explode out of the sound system.

I suffer from Night Terrors.  A sleeping disorder that causes me to snap awake in terror shortly after falling to sleep.  Sometimes I just snap awake.  Other times I grab my fiance and repeatedly ask her if she is all right.

And sometimes I wake up screaming my throat raw, leap from bed, and try to escape whatever it is that mind is threatening me with.

My fear going into Paranormal Activity was that it would strike the Night Terror nerve, and it did.  Watching the movie, at times, was like watching some of my worst episodes happening to other people.  I lost a night's sleep worrying about whether or not I would have an episode, which brings my line of thought back to the film's title.  

It was once believed that nightmares were caused by assorted demons (their names are legion, you know) tormenting some poor unfortunate soul.  Many still believe that to be true.  I do not.  I just cannot buy Ultimate Evil doing the psychological equivalent of sneaking up behind me and going, "BOO!"  I mean, I expect more out of Ultimate Evil than some stomping footsteps in the night.  In the dark.

But as I lay in bed alone last night (the fiance is out of town this weekend, hence my night out at the horror show) I worried about having an episode to the point of getting angry.  I eventually fell asleep and woke up this morning without incident.  Unless I had one and just don't remember it.  That happens, a lot.

Although my critical assessment of Paranormal Activity remains unchanged (while it is certainly an unnerving viewing experience, it is also not very "good" as an actual film) I nonetheless have to tip my hat to Oren Peli for making me fearful of going to sleep last night.  Even if it was not quite the way he intended.

Until next time, pleasant dreams...?

Paranormal Activity (2009)

What makes Paranormal Activity, the horror genre's current "little movie that could" box office darling, such a bluntly effective thrill ride, is its makers complete and utter understanding of H.P. Lovecraft's famous statement, "The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown."

Paranormal Activity invokes that fear in a series of well staged scenes that not only play on our collective fear of the dark, and of the strange noises that can rattle through a house in the dead of night, but also the chilling concept that something horrible might be happening around us while we are sound asleep in bed.  A time when we are as helpless as a newborn and utterly unable to defend ourselves from whatever is slithering towards us out of the shadows of nightmare.

A young couple (Katie Featherston and Micah Sloat, playing characters that share their real life names) suspect that they are being plagued by the titular activity and have decided to document their haunting by filming it.  They also consult with a psychic (Mark Fredrichs) that warns them that what is happening is very dangerous (I don't think that it is a spoiler to say that the activity is the result of a demon that "wants" Katie) and that they should not do anything whatsoever to encourage contact.  That would only agitate the entity and escalate the activity.  Micah scoffs at the advice and not only continues filming, but also tries to make the very contact that the psychic warned them not to.  A considerable amount of agitation and activity escalation result.

As I said, Paranormal Activity is bluntly effective and it appeared to scare the living bejesus out of several audience members at the screening I attended.  Good for them.  It's almost Halloween and everyone is entitled to at least one good scare.  The most I got out of it, however, were some choice moments of tension rooted in that deliciously creepy dread of what might come next, but nothing more heart pounding than that.

Two and a half stars out of four.