Part 3-5...Abridged in a Conversation with Doug Roberts

III-V in a conversation with Doug Roberts

Doug: What happens next?
Jim: Well, the old man asks me to sit down and he unties Alden. He puts a video tape in the VCR and presses play. He tells us to watch and warns us that if we ever tell anybody about what we saw, we'd be putting ourselves in great danger.
Doug: What was on the tape?
Jim: The real Oscars.
Doug: Like...from the future?
Jim: No, no. I did some research on the old man, the Christian Rosenkruez and it turns out that he's this guy who lived during the Renaissance who figured out how to prolong life and, obviously, turn into cats. So this guy appears to us and says we've been getting too close to the truth. He shows us this alternative Oscar ceremony where awards are given based on talent and not good press or media pushes.
Doug: Too close to what? And who won these awards?
Jim: Well...he said that Alden and I were uncovering the emergence of cinema-industrial complex. I think what he was trying to say is that studios are trying to put out as inferior a product as possible for the most gain possible. The time of innovation is over. It died in the late 70s and now studios decide what plays in the theaters. That means the studios dictate who wins awards, to an extent. If a studio can't dictate what gets seen, they can't make money as risk-free as they are now. They spend 10 million on a spoof film and get 100 times that in profit. Why? Because the studio is putting it on 2500 screens all over the country. So smaller, more innovative films suffer and mankind, as a result, suffers.
Doug: Huh.
Jim: I know. Pretty heavy shit. I guess last year was an anomaly and they couldn't stop us from seeing the good stuff because there was so much of it. But The Wrestler? Too small. In Bruges? Too weird. The Visitor? Too subtle. As a result, the movies being nominated are all bland, in-your-face gilded lilies. They're all fairly shallow and none of the five nominees for best picture are risky in the least. Maybe Slumdog, but even that turns into something trite and convenient toward the finale of the film.
Doug: So who won the real Oscars?
Jim: Wall-E.
Doug: But that made tons of money. That was a huge financial success.
Jim: Which is exactly why the studios are wrong. They seem to think they know what we want to see. We're only seeing what they want us to see, though. Do you think people are going to stop going to the movies is their only choices are those that are critically acclaimed?
Doug: Probably not.
Jim: Exactly. So in rural areas, where you have to drive half-an-hour to the theater, you're choices are...Beverly Hills Chihuahua, My Bloody Valentine and Twilight. And there's nothing wrong with those films, but do they need three screens each on their opening weekends? Not at the risk of better film. It's like devoting a wing of an art gallery to Ziggy cartoons. So many people go to the movies and don't really watch what they're seeing. They must realize on some primal level that they're being force-fed the same romantic comedies, the same horror movies and the same, played-out action movies. They must know.
Doug: So this guy told you all this?
Jim: Yeah, pretty much.
Doug: But...so what? People like what they like, right?
Jim: Yeah, of course. But if television and film are the most popular and accessible outlets for artistry and expressions of our culture, what do the films the make the most money say about us as a civilization? To me, it says that we're all so goddamn numb to feeling that even when presented with an opportunity to see something great and artistic, we won't. We've been and are being brainwashed into complacency, where we'd rather sit in the dark for 90 minutes watching something that doesn't engage us at all. Isn't it part of the human condition to seek out things that move us instead of merely manipulating? I want to see a film that makes me laugh, really laugh, and cry and something that makes me feel.
Doug: Yeah, maybe so. So, what happened next?
Jim: Well...the old man left. I guess he turned back into a cat, maybe? I don't know.
Doug: Huh. So where do you want to go for dinner tonight?
Jim: I don't know. Where do you want to go to dinner tonight?
Doug: I don't know.

Sick Day and Adventure Time

I'm not feeling well today. I'll finish the Oscar report sometime before the actual Oscars.


In the meantime...watch this:

Part II of the Oscar Post

(Prelude: I'm not going to write about the cartoon...I'm not going to write about the cartoon...I'm not going to write about the cartoon. Let's just say put judgment aside and agree that the jury is out on whether Delonas is a good or bad person or a racist. We can definitively say, though, (thanks to Gawker) that Delonas isn't a very bright cartoonist.)


II

The staccato knocks which were intended to alarm Jet instead gently pushed Alden's hollow, metal door open. Two thoughts rushed through my head as the door revealed a freshly turned-over living room: they're expecting me and I'm in great danger.

I scanned the room and saw Alden to my left, gagged and tied to a chair with twine. It was a sloppy job. He could wait.

I looked to my right. No Jet.

As I backed against the door, pushing it with the palm of my right hand, I looked into Alden's eyes and put my finger to my mouth. It didn't occur to me at the time that his muffled pleading was not the result of fear, but a warning.

"Pep-pep-pep-pep-pep! Jet! Pep-pep-pep. Come here, Jet!"

I heard movement behind me and about-faced. My eyes darted to the ground, expecting a medium-sized black cat, but instead I was startled to find a pair of black, leather dress shoes planted firmly on the ground, exiting a man's violet pinstriped pant legs like two upside-down whack-a-moles.

"We do not respond to 'Jet' in this form, Mister Eustice," the man said, his voice haughty from years of affluence. I trained my eyes slowly upward from the shoes; to the blue paisley tie bookended by two fat, violet lapels, to the waxy crags around his piercing blue eyes, and finally to his sly, white smile.

"Should I call you Tom?" I asked, genuinely confused. "Or Mister Wolfe?"

The man laughed.

"No, Jim. You may call me Christian," he paused and stared at me with the same sly smile, "or Mister Rosenkreuz."

To be continued...

5-part Oscar Post Continues Tomorrow and Friday, concluding on Saturday.

Trust me...I'm going somewhere with this. It will be Oscar related.

My Dinner with Alden or Cat’s Got Your Tongue: A Study of the 2009 Oscars in 5 Parts

I.

On a cold Saturday afternoon in February I was teetering on the brink of sleep and awake, when my phone rang. Not quite awake, I answered the phone with a jumble of hellos and huhs and whats

“Jim, I need your help,” a voice said. Scratchy. High-pitched. Almost recognizable. Almost.
“Who is this?” I demand.
“Jet”
“What?”
“Jet!”
“Li?”
“No. Alden’s Jet.”
“Oh.”
“I need your help, Jim.”
“But-“
“Damnit Jim. Just listen! We have precious little time!”

I listened intently as Jet explained why he needed my help and what he needed me to do. I was to drive to Jet’s apartment outside of Baltimore in a sleepy little town called Arbutus. Jet said I needed to meet him at his apartment so that a formal plan of action could be made. Maybe it was the drowsiness or the urgency in Jet’s voice, but I never asked him why he needed me. I hung up the phone and hopped in the shower. As I lathered up, my mind wandered to my friend Alden’s wedding. Jet had said that he was Alden’s Jet, but I couldn’t recall meeting anybody named Jet.

I put on my shoes and ran to my van.

As I was sitting in the driver’s seat, it hit me:

Jet was Alden’s cat.

(cue ominous music)

I dialed Alden’s number on my mobile phone and waited for the ringing to stop.

Finally, an answer.

“Alden?”
“Jim…just listen to Jet. Come to Arbutus.”
“What’s going on?” I asked right as I heard the phone being snatched away from Alden.
“Are you listening, Jim?”
It was Jet again. More tense this time. More demanding.
“Yeah, I mean…yeah, Jet. I’m listening. I’m just confused. How am I talking to a cat?”
“Just listen, Jim. Come to Arbutus. I need your help.”
“But…”
“Jim! Don’t be a hero.”
“But…you’re a cat,” but he hung up before I could finish.

I started the car and pulled out of my driveway.

End Part I

Part II tomorrow.

Why So Serious?

I was telling my cube-neighbor that I feel a bit tapped out when it comes to writing here and I honestly meant what I said. I feel like there's nothing to write about that is interesting. He suggested I write about the virtues of making love with the trash heap from Fraggle Rock. And while I could literally write a book about sleeping with ole' Marjory, that paragon of sagely oracle-ness, I feel that the time just...isn't right. It's one of those topics that I'll put in my back pocket and save it for another time.


Let me be frank with you all, my sweet seven readers: times are dire. There's just nothing to write about.

Every time I feel this way something fantastic happens. Call it happenstance; call it fate; hell, call it deus ex machina.

The following clip dropped into my lap, like manna from heaven.





Can you imagine being one of Joaquin Phoenix's biggest fans and going to see Letterman that night? How disappointed would you be that your favorite actor had turned into such a zombie? It doesn't even seem like he's having a bad night. It seems like he's on something that turns people into unresponsive bores who take themselves too seriously. I can understand why he would be slightly upset with the crowd and David Letterman, but honestly Letterman is just working with what he's being given. I don't think Letterman is being rude because that's what talk-show hosts have to do when the superstar that they are interviewing is so out of it.

The bigger picture, though, is that a great actor is putting his livelihood (and life) at risk with erratic and risky behavior (I am assuming that Phoenix is on some kind of drug). I remember the last guy who was psychologically erratic and unbalanced, and while he's about to get his first Oscar next Sunday, he will not be able to accept it because he's dead. At what point do we stop laughing at these damaged people, realize that they are neither gods nor monsters and collectively say something about it. We're elevating these people to celebrity, but we don't seem to want to take any kind of responsibility when one of them fizzles out or explodes like a supernova.

It's more complicated than that, though, isn't it? Celebrities, with the obvious exceptions, are adults. They should be able to take care of themselves. It's their responsibility to make sure that they are leading healthy and happy lives. On the other hand, there must be some kind of unbearable ennui that comes with being famous. That knowledge makes me question fame...but only for a second.

I guess I'm really glad to have something to write about, but at the same time, I feel really bad for Phoenix.

What's the Big Deal With Sam?

I think I have a pretty diverse sense of what is funny and what isn't, but after listening to Sam Kinison I'm at a loss. I can hear how he has influenced a diverse array of comics, from Bill Hicks to Lewis Black to Gabriel Iglesias. I can hear it and I imagine when they first heard Kinison, their minds were blown, but now he just sounds like a loud, angry misogynist.


He's not unfunny in the way that Andrew Dice Clay was, but I can't pick out anything that laughable about his material. Maybe his material was really shocking back then or maybe I'm just really, really jaded.

Anyway, I'm not sure what the huge deal is about Sam Kinison.

Operation Bitchslap is Go!!!

I guess I'm okay with missing How I Met Your Mother so that President Obama can get Operation Bitchslap under way.

Maybe I've taken it for granted, but isn't it nice, after twelve years, to have a president that makes sense and isn't embroiled in scandal? I don't know about you, but I'm really enjoying this presidency on a personal level. I'm not sure whether the stimulus plan is going to work or whether his plan is the best plan, but I am psyched that he seems to know exactly what is going on, as opposed to what his aides just told him five minutes before a speech (yes, George, we're talking about you).


Here's a better question: where were the media and their smart, probing questions eight years ago?

McDick

By now you've all heard the clip of Christian Bale making an ass out of himself while throwing a tantrum on set because the director of photography was messing around with the lighting.

Of course the DOP was wrong for messing with lights while Bale was getting into the scene. Apparently it was a very emotional scene that demanded a lot of Bale.

But honestly, you don't need to be that big an asshole to someone to get your point across. Bale certainly could have reigned in his anger and spend a minute yelling at the guy. Getting angry is one thing. Throwing tantrums is another.


All that aside, I'm curious where McG (the director of the film) was during all of this. The director of the film is supposed to lead his cast and crew. If something is wrong, he should nip it in the bud. If the lighting is off, he should correct it before the actors start the scene. If an actor is being unruly, he should clear the set. We never would have heard about Bale's tantrum if McG had done his job.

So, cheers to you McG!

Nadal vs. Federer

If you were not awake at 4am this Sunday and randomly tuned into ESPN2, you probably missed something great. In Melbourne, Rafael Nadal and Roger Federer faced off in the final match of the 2009 Australian Open.

Nadal, the 22 year-old Spaniard, ended up beating Federer in five exciting sets of tennis. If you're not compelled by their rivalry (an in-the-middle-of-his-prime, methodically intense, although emotionless Swiss man against a passionate, talented-but-reckless Spaniard) then you probably don't like sports. Or drama. Or living.


Next time these two meet, I suggest tuning in for twenty minutes. If, after twenty minutes, you're not hooked then...well...then turn the channel, obviously. Just give men's tennis a shot. You'll thank me.


Next Post: Thursday

The Blunt Truth

Now that our Olympic darling Michael Phelps has been outted as a hophead, isn't it time to start thinking about legalizing marijuana?

If he smokes weed and he can win a gaggle of gold medals, shouldn't we all be able to smoke it?

It's Michael Phelps!


If marijuana was legalized and regulated, wouldn't that create a lot of job? I'm just sayin'...let's all get behind Michael Phelps and NORML in legalizing it.



Next real post: Tuesday