dibididibidi SIBLING PIRACY
Random takes on our recent pirate loot.

Yo Chris. 

(As usual, let me begin with a spoiler.)

During a pivotal juncture of “Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World”, the spurned Knives Chau turns to our eponymous anti- hero (i.e. the douchebag who has dumped her earlier on in this tale) and proclaims simply “I’m too cool for you, anyway.” There is no trace of bitterness in her words. This is just a girl, realizing perhaps for the very first time in her life just how awesome she really is.

I swear, it took every ounce of self-control I had to NOT gradually rise from my chair and commence into a slow, solemn clap whilst hollering, “You go, AZN girl! Pwn that skinny hipster!” during this golden moment, but I managed. I managed.

Slow-clap inducing moment aside, I didn’t really get the movie, Chris. I just wanted to begin on a positive note. 

 At first, I couldn’t really put my finger on the exact reason why I didn’t warm up to the film as much as I thought I would. Then finally, the reason occurred to me: it had something to do with Knives Chau’s Declaration of Independence. Her resolute “I‘m too cool for you anyway” was more than just an isolated moment of revelatory self-worth / sweet retribution from the jilted 17 year old:  it was the freaking thesis statement of the entire film.  

I think that what I’m saying is that “Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World” made me feel embarrassingly uncool. I’ll even go as far as to say that it set out to pwn me (and the rest of the world who cannot visually process more than 100 frames per second). Thirty minutes into this frenetic pastiche of pop culture/video game references, visual puns, whip-smart comebacks mouthed by White Anglo-Saxon Urban Outfitted Hipsters (WASUOH is the new WASP), and a pulsating OST that pays tribute to the nostalgic blippety-blips of our Family Computer Games, I was winded. By the end of the movie I had  gained a newfound sense of empathy for our mother and how she manages to stage whisper, “ANO RAW?!??!” (much to our irritation) every 5 minutes during any movie we watch together. And it also took every ounce of self-control left in my exhausted state to NOT raise my hands in the air and admit,

“Give me prolonged periods of silence and shots of the wide, restless ocean and its foamy waves lapping against the shore! 

Give me Merchant Ivory and British accents and a pre-Bellatrix Lestrange Bonham Carter!

Give me heroines who weep in the rain!

I CONCEDE. MY SLOW BRAIN IS TOO OLD FOR THIS.”, but again, I managed, Chris. I managed. Like our intrepid hero, I charged on. And that, I think, is a feat. 

I do have other bones to pick with Edgar Wright’s distillation of Bryan O’Malley’s 6 part Pilgrim-verse, though. Take, for instance, the lack of three dimensional and endearing characters. Pilgrim himself is shallow and emotionally-stunted (I can hear your protests of “But he’s supposed to be that way, stupid! “, loyal fans. Calm down, for heaven’s sake.)—but that I can take.

 What is ultimately disappointing is the underwriting/characterization of the fickle minded, doe-eyed Ramona Flowers, who is portrayed as nothing more than The Enigmatic Hottie. We know that she is impulsive and a bit of a commitment phobe and she likes to mix things up, because

a. she has 7 Evil Exes.

b. like the infinitely more complex Clementine Kruczynski, she changes her hair color more often than she changes lovahz.

and

c. she has a lot of different tea flavors in her pantry.

We also know that she likes rollerblading and has dabbled in lesbianism. Aside from that, zilch.

Why are we supposed to be enamored with this caricature of a character, this Clementine-lite, with her bored stare and the irritatingly flat, lazy cadence of her voice? I don’t know, other than the fact that well, she is a hottie. But on the other hand, Scott Pilgrim is structured like a video game, and  R. Flowers basically fits the Video Heroine archetype. We don’t really know why heroes like Kage and Mario risk death and go through fire-breathing dragons and star wielding ninjas and evil bosses to save the likes of pixelized Enigmatic Hotties, Princess Kiri and Princess Peach, but we follow them on their journey, hoping for some kind of gratification in the end.

The only gratification my poor, tired brain got was when the moment the credits finally rolled, I switched off the DVD, curled into my bed and dreamt of Mr. Darcy.  Give me those British accents any day, dude. 

Hey Mag,

Goddamnit, that Alexis Bledel. She sure is cute, but she can’t act for shit.

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Yo Chris,

1, 654,684= number of times you rolled your eyes and exclaimed ‘Good god, a chick totally wrote this”.

1, 654,685=  number of instances I shrieked, ‘Shet. Ang gwapo mo Rodrigo Santoro’.

(i.e. I have absolutely no regrets watching this.)

For all y’all who appreciate eyecandy, here’s a new year’s treat for you:

You’re welcome.

p.s. Yes. A chick totally wrote it.

The band members of I Cant Go On, I’ll Go On—living hard core.

Not.

Yo Chris,

When I saw the DVD of Bandslam — its cover being a blinding eyesore of sparkles, hot pink, and Baby V’s tousled curls—  hidden underneath the pile of your usual pirate loot, the first thought that occurred to me was this:  ‘what kind of crack has my brother been smoking’? Considering my freakishly high tolerance for tween drivel, though, I was more than glad to witness your state of unraveling. What was next? A HSM marathon? Not a bad prospect. Not a bad prospect indeed, I thought. 

In Bandslam, our hero is Will (played by Gaelan Connell, who seems like he was cast in the hopes of finding The Next Michael Cera. Note to casting directors: close, but no cigar. What you have found, my friends, is The Next Ben Savage.). Will is a loser by high school standards except for a rare gift of his: an encyclopedic knowledge of music.  This gift is the reason why our curly-haired muppet suddenly finds himself managing a high school band headed by the effervescent Charlotte (a reformed biyatch who trades in cheerleading for warbling to Letters to Cleo songs in a garage). There’s a blossoming romance, here, with his morose Human Studies seatmate, Sa5m (a slouching, sulking Vanessa Hudgens), who speaks in a strange, robotic monotone and shares his love for ska.

The 5 in Sa5m’s name is silent, by the way. I hereby grant permission for the eyerolls to commence. Now.

Okay, I’m being unnecessarily snarky here. The truth is that Bandslam surprised me.  I was steeling myself for something as horrid as that Demi Lovato-Joe Jonas travesty, Camp Rock (good god yes i watched it stop judging me), but it actually had moments of cleverness and surprising authenticity. The writing is sharp; not overly angsty, but neither was it too bubblegum.  Most of the time the dialogue sounded like it was straight out of a well-crafted YA novel I would probably love when I was 14. The OST certainly isn’t anything to scoff at, either: by the end of the movie, you will have listened to Bowie, Nico & the Velvet Underground, Peter Bjorn, Wilco and Nick Drake, just to name a few.  Okay, and Vanessa Hudgens, too— but I have to admit, their ska-laced version of Bread’s I Would Give everything I Have” was kind of adorable.

The bottom line is that I liked Bandslam when it wasn’t trying too hard to prove its indie cred/ distinguish itself from usual tween fare. Because of this,  it often teetered on the brink of pretentiousness. Case in point: the renaming of the band’s name from the generic Glory Dogs to… (prepare yourself!) I Can’t Go On, I’ll Go On.

……

(ellipses= a moment of silence to cringe.)

Not only does this happen to be one of the most verbose, unmusical band monickers OAT, but it also happens to be  a line taken from Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot. I can imagine my dear friend Leo saying, “Teeeee-Aytch much?”.  A sudden thought, in its defense: then again, didn’t we all try a little too hard in high school?

Bandslam was nothing groundbreaking, but it was fun. Earlier, you talked about films that recaptured childhood, and this film actually did that for me. It made me miss certain things about being 14. Like being unapologetically jhologz. Or fiercely defensive about your musical taste. Or reveling in the magic of watching your peers transform from dorks to annointed gods of cool the moment they go onstage and start playing, no matter how untuned their guitars are.

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Hey Mag,

Wait, what? You’ve seen “Camp Rock”? That’s quite … unfortunate.

Anyway. Yes, I actually did feel a slight twinge of embarrassment as I asked the DVD shop owner to hand me the movie with Vanessa Hudgens on the cover, but then I realized that the only one judging me would be you, so I tried to discreetly sneak it into the bag. Obviously I failed miserably at that, though.

I had read somewhere that it was more “Adventureland” than “High School Musical,” and you know that I am such a sucker for the age-old “outsider-comes-of-age” tale. I still had my reservations, however. Vanessa Hudgens’ obviously rehearsed Punk Rock face/stance on the cover made my skin crawl. But guess what? 10 minutes into the movie and I actually stopped playing Plants vs. Zombies on the laptop and started paying attention to the dialogue (Yes, Katie, I know this reinforces your theory that I have ADHD, but what can you do?).

You covered it quite well; the dialogue was surprisingly decent, and at times, laugh out loud funny. The music was good; and you did actually find yourself rooting for the rag tag bunch of misfits who comprise (gag) I Can’t Go On, I’ll Go On, as they pop-rocked their way to attempt to win the coveted award that the film’s title refers to.

I’ll say this though: for a film advocating the Rock and Roll lifestyle, it was still unfortunately steeped in serious pop-rock territory.  It was fun, and I do recognize what they were going for. The intent was there, but sadly, the delivery pretty much flatlined at times. I liken it to a pop video: It’s enjoyable, fun and light but will in no way stand up to repeat viewings.

Chris

p.s. The whole David Bowie framing device was quite annoying, TBH.

Hey Mag,

The first thing that struck me about Spike Jonze’s “Where the Wild Things Are” is the hurried pacing of the first scene: the quick jump cuts, the jerky camera movements, Max’s guttural screams as he violently wrestles with his dog. This isn’t a children’s film. It’s a film made for grownups who long for their lost childhood. You know what that means, right? This is such a “Chris” kind of movie.

That first scene sets up the entire tone of the movie: one that we are not meant to enjoy as entertainment, nor to be preached to, but to relate with. Show me someone born before 1985 who does not remember being 10 years old, enjoying sun-kissed summers, grazed knees, dirty fingernails and winning imaginary battles against imaginary foes, and I will show you someone who never had a real childhood. You know that I refer to everyone we know who has grown up on a steady diet of Playstation 1-3, discovered the internet before they discovered what it feels like to climb a tree, and has never played a game of “patintero.”

“Where the Wild Things Are” is dark and brooding, and full of gut wrenching emotional scenes that affected me profoundly, despite the fact that 90% of the film relied on the emotions of CGI enhanced people in monster suits. Playing with this material, Spike Jonze reigned in any distracting urges to overstylize Maurice Sendak’s story, and simply told a tale that is essentially a celebration of childhood. It made me long for mine, that’s for sure. I’d give anything to recapture what it feels like being ten years old again.

Chris

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Yo Chris,

A parenthetical remark, first: True. I was born before 1985, and you’re right, there were a lot of skinned knees (swabbed with radioactive colored merthiolate) back then. And dirt. And climbing up trees, then falling on our little behinds. And a HELL of a lot of running—but mostly (see annoying sibling archetype) because I was trying to catch up to you.

So yes, with practically every shot being marinated in hazy golds and warm taupes (how many times can one say “holy lens flare, Batman?’), visually speaking, WTWTA successfully conveys the nostalgia for a remembered childhood. With that being said, though, I think this story resonates more with your idea of childhood than with mine.

The comfort of the film’s nostalgia notwithstanding, one cannot deny that there is something fundamentally unsettling about its premise: a mischievous little boy leaves home and becomes king of a magical land inhabited by Wild Things—who, by the way, may or may not eat him up. If your child sleeps with a night-light to ward off the monsters under his bed, then this probably isn’t the movie for him. In defense, though, it is precisely this lack of cutesy preciousness that I believe to be one of the primary strengths of the film—a refreshing counter to what Sendak believes to be the “American problem” of churning formulaic and insipid stories for/about children:

Sendak: Europeans have done films about children, like The 400 Blows or My Life as a Dog, which is one of the most wonderful movies ever. It’s tough to watch his suffering when his mother is dying and he scoots under the bed. That’s the kind of way they have of dealing with children and they always have. We are squeamish. We are Disneyfied. We don’t want children to suffer. But what do we do about the fact that they do? The trick is to turn that into art. Not scare children, that’s never our intention.

Do you think Disney is bad for children?
Sendak: I think it’s terrible.

While I am a hardcore Disneyphile, I can see Sendak’s point. Although I’m a sucka for the singing mermaids and cricket-consciences, stories about children alone in a world of strange and potentially dangerous creatures have simultaneously petrified and fascinated me, as well.

EXHIBIT A

(I have a sinking feeling this did not age well, however.)

EXHIBIT B

(An exception to the Disney-Movies-are-Sissified-Versions-

of-the-Original-Source-Material rule)

EXHIBIT C

This tops my Favorite Creepy Childhood Movies List.

Much to my delight, in WTWTA things do not only get curiouser and curiouser, but they get kind of ugly as well. King Max’s monster-friends/vassals are not of the Sesame St/Monster’s Inc/ Batibot. variety; there are no long-eyelashed elephants or blue, yeti-like creatures with hearts of gold or gravelly voiced monkeys. And while they do have sharp incisors, there are no instances of sparkling in the sunlight. Granted, they do bring in the fun times, but it is clear that they are all too capable of inflicting harm:  they fling each other into the air, tear each other’s limbs, and step on each other’s faces. And—an interesting (read: NOT MY FAVORITE) addition to their characters—they can also get annoyingly emo at times.

This brings me to another point: Sendak’s WTWTA has long been regarded as a fictional study on the anger of a child (Francis Spufford in The Child that Books Built {which, admittedly, I have not read} characterizes it as “one of the very few picture books to make an entirely deliberate, and beautiful, use of the psychoanalytic story of anger”), and yet the Eggers-Jonze take on the tale seems adamant on characterizing Max as a child who is wrestling with other emotions as well. Anger does play a huge part in the story: Max’s rage is the kind that does not know how express itself, but instead bubbles over and manifests itself in stomping feet, uncontrollable tears, bites, or just the yearning to go out into the wild and be, well, wild (i.e. Max is one of the Wild Things himself). In Max’s case, however, these bouts of petulance are mostly in retaliation to what he perceives as mammoth injustices in his own world: a distracted mother, a broken igloo, a sister who fails to come to his defense.  This kind of anger (or, at the very least, the attraction to a ‘wild rumpus’) is not alienating, though—at least not to me. God knows that there are days when I pass by the glassware section at the department store and I am overcome with this strange compulsion to break a dish. Or ten. This inexplicable desire to bash things is certainly not alienating to the Wild Things, themselves. Hey, weird little thing, one of them says. I like the way you destroy stuff.

In the script, my ex-boyf, the now very married D. Eggers gives us a Max who is as hyperactive and temperamental as Sendak’s original creation. However, the film’s Max is also lonely (one of his first promises as King is to protect them from loneliness with a “sadness shield” that is big enough for all of them) and terrified of things that are bound to expire (the sun. his mother. perhaps even childhood itself.). Even the strongest Wild Thing of them all, Caroll, (voiced by James Gandolfini, who has mastered the Stoic, Macho Archetype)  shares Max’s fear of mortality — at one point he turns to Max, bewildered, and says, I don’t even know what comes after dust.

Intense stuff? Um, yes. While I appreciate the attempt to flesh out Sendak’s characters, (expanding the 10 sentence long children’s story into a feature length film is no small feat indeed), I sometimes found these emotional meanderings a tad bit heavy-handed for my personal taste. However, these are very minor quibbles.  I liked WTWTA. A lot. Primarily because it was able to evoke a very visceral (and yet, at the moment, undefinable) reaction from me. Did my Disney-softened self react squeamishly because it showed a child’s suffering?  Did it make me mourn the loss of my imagination or was i inspired to rediscover the magic in simple things, like balls of string, or jumping up and down or whooping like an Indian, or carving my name on the surface of a tree trunk? I don’t know, I can’t tell, not yet.