(DISCLAIMER: The views expressed in the following are those of the Brown Cary Grant and do not necessarily reflect the views of the editorial staff of So Much Fun It Hurts, its administrator or people accidentally caught reading it. Other than that...enjoy.)
Everyone loves to bitch, everyone loves a list, and everyone loves to get nostalgic about shit that isn’t worth getting nostalgic about. Somehow, I feel that you are no different. So, here’s a list of the Most Overrated Things in 2007:
Karolina Kurkova: She’s too tall, too thin, and too ugly. Let’s face it, if the Victoria’s Secret crew have a DUF, she's it.
MySpace: It’s Facebook’s creepy older cousin. Now that Facebook allows people who aren’t in college to have accounts, MySpace has become the creepy older cousin who tried to kiss you. Stay away!
Homogenous race people: If you’re hot, it’s cause you’re bi-racial. If you ain’t,it’s cause you not.
Calling Beckham Overrated: Relax! He is overrated. I’m just saying that if you can’t name a single player on Chelsea’s roster, or a single team Mr. Beckham has played for, or think that Landon Donovan is the quarterback for the Philadelphia Eagles, shut the fuck up!
PCs: Ask to borrow your friends Macbook Pro and you’ll know what I mean.
Larry Craig: You call that a sex scandal?! Let John Edwards get in office. He’ll show you a sex scandal.
Empathizing with developing nations: Equatorial Guinea and Angola are being dubbed the new Kuwait and Dubai. Meanwhile, America is still feeling the effects of the sub-prime mortgage crisis. Sorry to burst your bubble, Sally Struthers.
Relationship Experts: I’m a pretty intelligent guy, but even I can’t begin to tell you why seemingly perfect couples get divorced while Diane Lane is still happily married- and neither can the so-called experts.
Free Time: People always say that if they had free time that they would join Habitat for Humanity or Save the Whales- Bullshit! If the average person had free time he/she would spend it masturbating or buying songs for their karaoke machine. You are more productive at work, trust me.
Birth Control: Just ask Jamie Lynn.
Specifying your religious denomination: I highly doubt that the average soldier knows or even cares about whether you’re Sunni, Shiite, or Kurd. I highly doubt that a suicide bomber would think twice about attacking you if he knew you were Episcopalian.
Skinny Bitches: I don’t care about most of the things Paris Hilton does, but she is causing thick woman to lose their badunkadunk and I do care about that.
Office Romances: Most of the women in my office are over the age of 40. So, there will be no Krasinski-Fischer type romances for me unless Mr. Jose Cuervo plays wingman.
Hannah Montana: I know teeny bopper music isn’t supposed to be intelligent, but “I st-st-stuttering when you asked...what’s wrong with me?” My best friend Leslie said 'she’s just being Miley.' These aren’t lyrics-they’re a fucking journal entry. As I speak she’s selling out shows across America and is poised to be an international sensation (like her dad?)
Bloggers: Just because someone writes for a blog it doesn’t mean that he is worth listening to. Perez Hilton has a blog. You wouldn’t listen to him would you? (Editor's Note: Not like the Brown Cary Grant is a blogger or anything...)
Saturday, December 22, 2007
(DISCLAIMER: The views expressed in the following are those of the Brown Cary Grant and do not necessarily reflect the views of the editorial staff of So Much Fun It Hurts, its administrator or people accidentally caught reading it. Other than that...enjoy.)
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Am I the only one disappointed they didn't use the giant rat wrapped in a Knicks jersey? (I know they weren't striking, but still, the possibilities...)
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
(Courtesy of 236.com)
Speaking of all things preggers, against everything in my body saying to do otherwise, I somehow found myself watching the overhyped, overexposed, talked-way-too-much-about "Juno", which not surprisingly, is exactly what you think it is; not bad, just not great either.
"Juno" is cute, cuddly, and so saccharine sweet it makes your teeth hurt at times. Michael Cera plays his dorky Everyman to his usually charming ability (Am I the only one who can't wait till he goes and does some really fucked up murderer/rapist/asshole turn in a film? May the ghost of Ducky haunting "Two and a Half Men" teach him the error of the lovable loser's ways), and the ensemble cast comprising Juno's immediate family (J,K. Simmons and Allison Janney) do a great job at playing that open-minded sweet parental unit that every rebellious suburban teenager wishes they had.
And that's where "Juno" seems to take the biggest hit; everything seems too easy, and for a supposedly whip-smart comedy about teen pregnancy, there just isn't enough conflict to make Juno's reality as plausible as it could be. When faced with the prospect of abortion (which thankfully, unlike "Knocked Up" at least attempts to broach the subject), Juno is dissuaded too easily, somewhat contrary to the sharp intellect reflected in her dialogue. At times, Jason Reitman's direction appears more concerned with being cute and playing up laughs than letting a nice moment unfold on its own. (Let me be on record though as saying that I love screenwriter Diablo Cody,cause of her awesome pen name, and cause anyone that can go from the pole to the Oscars is a-okay in my book)
Like many things thoroughout the film, Rainn Wilson's cameo as the convenience store clerk is forced, and at best, biogradably disposable. Jason Bateman and Jennifer Garner do a decent job as the infertile yuppie couple, with Garner's unabashed, almost overbearingly mannequin-like enthusiasm nicely compensated by Bateman's turn as the middle aged adolescent male bordering on an almost Humbert Humbert cheekiness.
The saving grace of this diabetic nightmare is Ellen Page, who's smart allecky-though-ofcourse-insecure-teenage-girl not only carries the film, but thrives inspite of the jokey dialogue. Although too much of the film is spent setting her Juno up with wise cracks and one-liners, Page's balance between comedic center and emotional foundation is beautifully well played.
Despite a hokey, so-cute-it-makes-me-wanna-swear-off-sugar-and-lo-fi-indie-music-for-life-finale, "Juno" accomplishes what it sets out to: making teenage girls feel all warm inside, allowing hipsters to bask in its overstated-understated indie glory, and making even the Conservative Right feel a little comfortable with a sinfully liberal back talking, pre-marital sex having teeny bopper.
Now all is right in the world...break out the multicolored knee highs and let's play "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea" for the umpteenth fucking time.
Monday, December 17, 2007
(Editor's Note: All this fantasy sports talk reminds me of an article from my past. For self serving purposes, judge away...and enjoy)
Steps to Overcoming Addiction (Names changed to protect the innocent and ashamed.)
Step 1- Admit you are powerless over your addiction.
“Come on, man. I know you have something for me.”
“No, I don’t do that stuff anymore. I told you.”
“Come on. You’re a pro at this, just give me something, I need help badly.”
“Okay, but this is it, no more after this, understand? I’m done with wasting away with all this. Just this and no more, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, give it to me.”
“Two words: Jorge Garbajosa.”
Spending the wee hours of a Thursday morning discussing the breakout potential of an un-drafted Spanish forward for the Toronto Raptors is something that should be relegated to professional general managers,scouts, or play-by-play experts, not twenty-somethings leaving after last call. Yet that is the plight of a fantasy sports addict, a life altering atrocity that currently grips the lives of almost 18 million Americans according to the Fantasy Sports Trade Association.
According to the FSTA, the number of fantasy sports players has grown steadily by nearly ten percent each year for the past three years, and with the explosion of websites, magazine columns and television shows such as ESPN’s “The Fantasy Show” and Fox Sports Net’s “Fantasy Fix” dedicated to this malignantly manipulative maelstrom of mankind, it does not look to be losing any ground. But it must be stopped.
Step 4- Make a thorough and honest inventory of yourself
Fantasy sports are looked down upon by many sports purists. “It takes away from the game”; “Becomes too much about the numbers”; “Makes you root for individuals instead of teams,” are the usual explanations for their disdain. As a longtime sports fan, I shared these same beliefs, until I saw the professional benefits.
It’s a Monday morning at TVT Records, an independent record label home to the likes of Lil’ Jon and the Eastside Boyz, the Ying Yang Twins, and Jimmy Page. Publicity Assistant J.C., 28, is busying organizing press kits and planning out junkets for an upcoming album release. Scratching his shaved head and peering over his Buddy Holly-eque glasses, he asks his intern in the copy room an important question.
“Johan for Chavez and Roberts, should I do it?”
“Who’s your number two?” I ask.
“Ouch. No, you can’t. Johan’s just too money right now. Besides, Roberts could be a fluke and Chavez will kill your BA.”
“You’re right. Did you call the booking agent? We need the Ying Yang Twins performing in a Georgia prison before the release date.”
J.C., a Hoboken native, has worked at TVT for two years and along with some friends has developed a fantasy sports company, Hot Box Sports, a venture he foresees as being the ultimate fantasy sport venue. J.C. and his 2nd place Donkey Punchers embody the spirit of fantasy sports. Within the halls of TVT, much like many offices and other jobs, fantasy sports has become a means of networking, generating conversations, friendships, and uniting lowly and belittled interns with established executives all in the name of fantasy sport glory. This is where the addiction began.
Step 8- Make a list of all the people you have harmed.
L.G., 24, is a warm, personable employee of the Apple Store at Roosevelt Field Mall on Long Island. L.G. has a tall, powerful presence were it not for his childlike face, something he uses to his advantage. Suddenly his Blackberry alert goes off.
“Channing Frye’s hurt? Damn it, I wasted a mid round draft pick on him!”
L.G. constantly has his sports update alert on, contemplating trades and possible match up scenarios down the road, all while balancing a workload of college classes, part time jobs, and failed relationships.
“She really didn’t get it, it might have been a year or so, but I wasn’t going to miss my draft for some dinner with her parents,” L.G. says. “Besides, it all worked out in the end; Reyes and Beltran stayed healthy all season and I ran away with it.”
Looking at his computer screen, L.G. eyes his Yahoo Sports Stat Tracker and smiles at the latest page reload.
“It’s funny; sometimes I think I have more fun watching the stats change than the actual game,” L.G. says.
The BlackBerry goes off several times but he ignores it.
“Just some stupid girl,” he says with his back to the ringing, a reflection of his 1st place Impact Playaz’s homepage shining on his glasses.
Step 9- Make direct amends to people whenever possible.
Fantasy sports, like any degenerative affliction, can be treated. It can be stopped if discovered in the early stages of addiction.
A.J., is a skinny 22 year-old newbie to the fantasy sports world. A.J. recently joined a fantasy football league with family and friends, a league comprised primarily of former high school football players living vicariously through the box scores. Even his team name, “He Hate Me” in honor of former Carolina Panthers kick return specialist Rod Smart is a bit dated, another sure sign of a newbie.
“I never played it before, so I figured, why not?” A.J. says. “It’s not like I was going to end up like one of those pathetic fantasy nut jobs.”
Newbies usually fall into two categories: Those who quickly lose interest after a poor draft or weak showing in the first month, and those that find the success of an 8-0 start equal to the irrepressible dictatorial demand for more. A.J. tragically fell into the latter. A.J. himself would never claim to be a mathematical genius, but tell him Rex Grossman’s stat line in Week 12, and in a split second...
“Minus five fantasy points,” says A.J. without pause. “Horrible line, he kills me just as often as Jake Delhomme has for the past month.”
As marijuana has been considered among medical professionals as a “gateway drug,” an initial introduction to deadlier narcotics, so too has fantasy football. Although the origins of this game lie within NYT writer Daniel Okrent’s first rotisserie baseball league,fantasy football has pushed the sport to its current heights. Though gambling is as much to blame as fanatical competition for the game’s popularity, people like A.J. (whose claim to the $200 winning take all pot is all but his) have sought unusual sources for their fantasy fix. In some cases, you don’t even have to be a sports fan.
SoapNet’s Fantasy Soap League is a venture by Disney targeted towards hardcore daytime soap fans who share an unhealthy urge to draft and score actors and characters according to every argument, cat fight, and back-from-the-dead storyline that involves them. Susan Lucci’s Erica Kane can now be quantitatively equated to Peyton Manning, putting up big numbers in the season, but always coming up short, whether it’s at the Daytime Emmys or in the NFL playoffs. (Editor's Note: This was written months before the Colts run. Crow has already been eaten and digested accordingly.)
The monstrosity of fantasy has also reared its ugly head in the already despicable world of politics, on Fantasy Congress, with the tagline, “Where People Play Politics.” Political junkies can now get their fix competing on a scoring system based on how effective a congressman is able to push legislation, pass bills, and policies approved. Who knew Arkansas Representative Don Young could be as prolific a scorer as LaDainian Tomlinson?
Step 12-Having experienced a spiritual awakening, carry this message to other addicts and practice these principles in your everyday life. Be wary of relapses during this process.
It’s been an entire year since I’ve gone near a draft board, quitting all the major fantasy sports cold turkey in the name of peace and normalcy. No more tossing and turning over whether or not I should have started Andre Iguodala over Gerald Wallace. No more killing myself over drafting Donovan McNabb a year ago despite knowing he was on the cover of Madden 06. Tonight, I’m out having drinks with friends at a bar in the East Village. Out of sight, out of mind.
“Wow Kirilenko got hurt again? There goes my matchup this week,” a surprisingly cute friend of a friend says to my left, watching a SportsCenter update.
“You play fantasy?” I ask.
“Yeah, my girlfriends think it’s stupid,” she says. “I dunno, I’m just hooked. It’s the only good thing my ex-boyfriend ever got me into. What about you?”
Relapse be damned. I think I’m in love.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
So I've been a witness to several crazy fantasy sports driven rants and I just want to say that I fucking hate anyone who takes part in a heated discussion involving fantasy sports. I've just declared hatred for about 75% of the people I know and it feels so damn fine.
Many years ago I was given the extreme pleasure of getting a spot on my uncle's fantasy baseball league. My sister and I shared the team and it showed through our choice of players. My sister was in love with Mike Piazza and set out to get him on our team while I was in love with a lesser known man named Joe McEwing.
His nickname is Super Joe and, by god, he sure was super in my book. Anyway we both got our choice of players and proceeded to lose every single week. I wasn't too concerned with it all but some of the other players wanted a challenge. In the end we won a grand total of once and had to cough up $20. Our poor adolescent lives were never the same.
After spending so much time away from this scene, I was recently thrown back into it kicking and screaming courtesy of my frat boy co-workers. Hour after endless hour I am tormented by talk of how many points this one got and how that one wanted to be up against "Tom" instead of "Mark." Again I wanted to shout, "FUCK YOU!"
Since there seems to be no escape from this torture I've found other fantasy leagues that I can be a part of. Leagues that revolve around reality t.v. and I couldn't be happier.
Here is my fantasy Project Runway team:
Fafarazzi is the place for all my fantasy league dreams.
Speaking of websites that bring me continuous joy, Swim At Your Own Risk is basically a big ole shark bite blog and I'm obsessed with it. I'm not sure why since I hate going to beaches, have a dislike for all things shark, and am not fascinated by gore-tastic images but it never fails to entertain me. I found this lovely mood stabilizer there and I will share it with you as a parting gift:
Happy shark watching.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Bollywood makes about 900 movies a year. By the laws of probability at least nine should be worthy of Oscar consideration, or Golden Globe consideration, or of being green lit, but alas, this is not the case.
I recently saw the John Abraham vehicle "Goal". The movie is about London’s semi-pro football team South Hall United (South Hall is a predominantly Indian and Pakistani section close to Heathrow airport)."Goal" has just about every cliché imaginable, which means I should hate it- but I don’t. I don’t hate it because I love the 'beautiful game,' and the movie got me thinking about the lack of Indian and Pakistani players in the English Premier League.
Saying that there aren’t a lot of South Asian players in the Premier League is an understatement. There is only one South Asian player- Michael Chopra; but he plays for Sunderland. That’s like saying you date a Victoria Secret model but it’s Karolina Kurkova.
So, the question that I pose to you is: Where the hell are all the South Asian footballers? South Asians make up about five percent of England. This means that there are approximately 3.05 million South Asians. Clearly, talent scouts have a reluctance to recruit South Asians.
There is no getting around the fact that England is a country that is slow to warm up to new ideas. There's also very little doubt that football is highly subjective. These two things combine to provide an ideal opportunity for the powers that be to construct a glass ceiling.
I’M NOT SAYING THAT TALENT SCOUTS ARE RACIST. What I am saying is that there is a tendency to go with what you know. A talent scout may see a five foot-nine inch South Asian with only slightly above average pace and say, “That young lad seems more suited to cricket." I’m not saying that this situation happens all of the time, but to say that it never happens would be foolish. It would be the equivalent of saying that the fans of opposing teams spit on Thierry Henry because he is from Arsenal (or his current team, FC Barcelona).
Many traditionalists want to establish a quota system. Some have proposed that every Premiership team must have more than half its side be comprised of English citizens. Such quotas are detrimental to the quality of football, and I would never propose a South Asian footballer quota. All I’m saying is that coaches from the grassroots level all the way up to the Premiership should take a page out of the books of their former colony from across the pond and let the best players play.
The long awaited film adaptation of "Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street" has finally arrived, and just as film fanatics have anticipated, rarely has a marriage between project and director been so sinfully sweet.
Death, darkness, Dickensian London, and Depp; what more could Tim Burton fans have asked for?
Musical film adaptations haven't fared too well in recent years, with the energetic "Chicago" and "Dream Girls" exceptions to the deplorably commonplace "Phantom of the Opera" being the rule. With an emphasis on the cliche ridden musician bio pic that seems to appear annually during award season, long gone are the days when the musical was assessed on the same level as a drama.
Not that "Sweeney Todd" is the type of film Oscar blowhards will readily go for. No, Burton's newest film is an exercise in frightening hilarity, at times gruesome, yet almost always consistently engaging and hilarious. Harking back to the dark, over the top humor of "Ed Wood" and interminglingly it with all the best parts of "Sleepy Hollow," "Edward Scissorhands," and hell, even his remake of "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory," Burton finds a striking balance between horror and humor, pushing the Broadway bravado with just the right dose of campiness.
Burton's love and longtime collaborator Helena Bonham Carter once again perfectly plays the ying to Depp's yang, the perfect couple in every Goth kid's wet dream. Her "special pie" making business fits nicely in the world of Sweeney Todd, outrageous, yet realistic in a place of singing and slaughter. Carter's business proposal to Depp echoes the black comedy "Eating Raoul", and similarly hits all the right notes.
"Todd's" supporting players are as well cast as they are typecast, with Alan Rickman reprising his Snape sneer as the evil Judge Turpin, Timothy Spall as his bumbling underling Beadle Bamford, and an over-the-top cameo of Sacha Baron Cohen as Todd's rival Signor Adolfo Pirelli. Rounding out the cast are the relative newcomers who carry the bulk of the best singing, Jayne Wisener as Todd's princess trapped in the tower, Jamie Bower as her sailor in shining armor, and young Ed Sanders as Tobias, an earnest Oliver Twist who almost steals the show with his vocal range.
The veteran cast does an admirable job singing, and while he won't be winning any karaoke competitions against Hugh Jackman anytime soon, Depp does just enough with his limited vocals to soften the visible violence of Todd's anti-hero gaze.
Violence...ah yes, the violence. For those preteeners and tweeners expecting a cheerfully sweet darkness in this Burton/Depp collabo, please avert your eyes. "Sweeney Todd" loves his blood, and boy, Burton does too. Any hopes for a sweet, maybe even family friendly musical with smidgens of blood better go peddle their wares and hard earned twelve bucks elsewhere. Burton doesn't just show Todd's bloodlust, he drowns us in it.
From comedic musical montages, to nail biting anticipation for that first hint of blood, Burton makes sure he earns that R rating with gratuitous head drops and spurting blood baths that would make even the most ardent Broadway "Todd" fan squeamish. The violence is pushed to its comedic limits to just the right extreme, and presented in the Burton's always beautifully dark universe bouyed by a backdrop of Stephen Sondheim's romantic score, it's hard not to be glued to the screen.
"The Demon Barber of Fleet Street" may not be for the faint of heart, nor even the most diehard musical fan, but it hits all the right beats that reminds jaded filmgoers once again of what cinematic grandeur really means.
Now for a taste of Depp's makeshift Keith Richards-pirate-homicidal-maniac-musiciality:
And for good measure, one of Depp's early forays into singing, John Waters's magnificently awful, "Cry Baby" (Depp's pipes appear at 2:10):
In honor of the recent George Mitchell report debacle supposedly plaguing the sacred American pastime, I present another unnecessary spot of truth that spoils it for the rest of us enjoying the air of ambiguity:
Accomplished comedian, actor, and longtime friend and student of the late legendary Zen master of improv Del Close Bill Murray, takes all his improv chops and gives us...well, this. Here, after much spirited speculation, is his improvised final whisper from the indie-fav "Lost in Translation," finally revealed through digital processing, and behold... another lackluster clump of disappointment.
Now cross your fingers and hope for another Ghostbusters sequel. Hell, if Indiana Jones and Rambo can do it, why can't Peter,Ray, Winston and Egon come back decrepit and old as well?
Thursday, December 13, 2007
"Being an old maid is like death by drowning- a really delightful sensation after you have ceased struggling."- Edna Ferber
Life doesn't end at thirty; it ends the moment you forget what age you actually are.
In an era consumed more than ever with drowning in the fountain of youth, the transition into senescence is a frightening prospect few want to face or contemplate, let alone address in major Hollywood productions.
We like our old people to be warm, friendly, funny and wacky- whether it be the overstimulated hilarity of "Cocoon," the boys-will-be-boys screwball silliness of "Grumpy Old Men," or the geriatric pre-Sex and the City set of "the Golden Girls." When it comes to old people in mainstream media, we want them sharp or silly, never meandering towards a gradual decline into mental and physical decrepitude.
Which is what makes two of this year's strongest dramas arguably the most unconventional. "The Savages" and "Away From Her" don't simply use elderly decline as a disposable comedic device or meaningless MacGuffin (i.e. "Little Miss Sunshine," "On Golden Pond") but daringly make it the centerpiece of their respective narratives, addressing issues and concerns with depth and sincerity.
"The Savages", a Laura Linney/Philip Hoffman vehicle looks like a quirky indie comedy on the surface, but peels back layers upon layers of emotional complexity that isn't devoid of comedy, though a comedy it definitely is not.
With all the critical acclaim and indie buzz a relatively small production like the "Savages" has garnered, the viability of well-known brand names like Hoffman and Linney have helped get this film to a larger audience, yet also further illustrates the problem of making a film about old age- age is nearly impossible to market.
Death? Death is easy; it's sexy, it's dark, it can be wrapped up in dark comedy or carnal confections and still maintain a profitable audience. But old age? No, today, you have to trick audiences into watching it, and in the case of "the Savages," it's a trick worth the price of admission.
Though not the kind of conventional indie comedy experience one anticipates based on the ad campaign, "the Savages" succeeds in eloquently touching the nerve of mortality not as an empty source of melodramatic parental blame, but as a bitchslap of reality hitting middle aged siblings still stuck in adolescent isolation. It would have been easy to make the film about "why daddy's presence (or lackthereof) is why the fuck I am the way I am" but director Tamara Jenkins steers clear of this cliche, and emphasizes the terrifying reality of facing maturity even at the tender age of 45.
Laura Linney does her usual best in being the predominant protagonist in the film, balancing the child-like naivete of a daughter trying to do what's expected of her, while also reconnecting with a competitive sibling she scarcely sees. Linney carries the bulk of the film, her progression not a wanton 'symbolic' narrative, but an arc that serves as a product of the greater whole.
Hoffman, to his credit, plays the condescending, yet emotionally conflicted brother with the right amount of masculine detachment and indirect empathy. His interactions with Linney are the strongest points of the film, whether it be forcing his sister to face the reality of their father's impending demise or sitting alone in a bathroom late at night, framed by darkness and coming to terms with his fear of emotional intimacy.
As "the Savages" delves into the harsh reality of dealing with parental demise, "Away From Her"tackles the most painful aspect of the subject- the loss of identity by losing a loved one. In stark contrast to the indie comedy promotional vibe of the aforementioned, "Away From Her" personifies the reality of making a film for a specific audience that they themselves don't want to see.
Highlighted by the suprisingly enthralling Julie Christie and the grizzled omnipresence of Gordon Pinsent, "Away From Her" beautifully takes the fairy tale love affair archetype and punctures it with degenerative dementia, cutting open a wound that doesn't scab and eventually heal, but continues to pulsate and bleed out towards an ending that isn't emotionally satisfying, nor should it be.
First time director Sarah Polley takes all her 28 years of life experience and channels the youthful fears of elderly mortality into a subtle, moving film, that doesn't ever try too hard, nor ever pushes buttons the sophisticated viewer anticipates. Polley's film is not an exercise in managing loss, but an exploration of the end of the fairly tale, an end to a way of life, and a journey towards redefining one's identity in the wake of a loss.
Christie and Pinsent's interactions define beauty and sexuality in old age, as Christie's decline emanates a shimmer perfectly offset by Pinsent's maddening descent into depression.
The success of the these respective films has been a refreshing change of pace from the mainstream film landscape riddled with melodramatic bio-pics, faux-socially conscious celebrity whore-studded ensemble pieces, and customary overblown literary action films. Yet ultimately they reflect the stark reality of the elderly audience.
You're old, your incomes are rarely far from disposable, and thus you are disposable. "Respect your elders" indeed.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
After Carmen's departure with the murderous Tiki Barber 'let's get the designers to make an outfit for a thick-necked footballer' challenge, I thought, what can they do to top the insanity that was brought last week?! To my surprise, they brought in ProRun's resident bitch, Nina Garcia, to show the designers what fashion styles are over and unsurprisingly, how they should update them.
Well fuck... another team challenge. It seems a bit early for all this team bullshit but I guess they are just trying to up the emotional punch of bitchy designers.
I think the designers in this season have seen what happens during the team challenges and have played accordingly. Half of the team leaders were chosen because no one wanted to be team leader. Everyone was afraid of being in the final two since that's where team leaders normally end up. That being said, the leaders we ended up with are as follows:
"Team Star is, like, hot. Like Star, Like celebrity." - Christian
(yup... star like hot. Shh.. He's still my favorite.)
Ricky, the man that who can speak Elisa's language, was a puppet in the hands of Victorya.
Chris, no formal training, March.
Jillian, who up until that point was a humorless blob and unfortunately for her remains one.
Yeah, everything after Christian looks like a bunch of ::ahem:: winners.
Things we learned about our designers and ourselves this week:
Steven ended up doing his best (yet worst overall) Tim Gunn impression. He's no Santino but he does give off quite the Emmett McCarthy vibe.
Victorya is a BITCH. She's up there with Rami as the most hyper-dicky designer this season. She may have upped her game by practically forcing the leader role on Ricky then asking him why he wanted it. Score one to Victorya in the baddest bitch of ProRun contest. Rami, you better step up the asshole vibes I'm getting from you or you'll lose the title to someone who spells her name like an idiot.
Jillian really doesn't impress me. She reminds me of a girl I went to high school with. Entirely too plain for entertaining television. I think she needs to be kicked off next episode based on her inability to entertain.
During judging, Nina Garcia's ring made her finger look like it was in a cast. Damn, Nina...
Overall this episode was very lackluster. This season isn't doing anything for me. Kicking off Chris March before we even got a sense of who he was as a person makes me weep for him and the early departures of the past.
::pours liquor on the floor for our lost designers::
Now episode 5 is about to start and Jack's illness surprise will finally be let out the bag.
Until next week....