…or
Not even the full moon can transform this movie into something decent

Last night I saw a screening of “The Wolfman” movie which is due to be released today, February 12th. If this review serves as anything to you, dear reader, let it be a warning: Director Joe Johnston and company have shit the bed quite horribly with this latest attempt at reviving an old Universal horror franchise, with a film awash in poor acting, plot anemic storytelling and wretchedly awful special effects. I find it rather pointless to go into the specifics of why this movie is so completely terrible, but it must be noted that there were chuckles during various ‘intense’ or ‘moving’ moments, scoffing during obviously poor computer-driven special effects (‘special’ in the way that those Olympics for challenged children are special), and more than it’s share of audience watch-checking. Trust me, folks–this thing is b-a-d. Even Anthony Hopkins, usually at very least decent, is clearly phoning his performance in, evidently from somewhere deep within the Bermuda Triangle. Benicio Del Toro is monstrously miscast (pun intended), and poor Emily Blunt spends the movie looking slightly constipated. The sets are pretty nice, and there are a few visuals that are almost kind of sort of nice, but the overall effect of the film on myself and those with me for this particular screening was, “You guys want to go get a pizza or something? Too late to eat? Yeah, I guess. See you guys next week maybe. Oh, did you remember to call Kim? Yeah, I told her about that Hollywood Bowl event and she….yeah, yeah. Did she really? Weird. Well, we can catch up later in the week. Drive safe…”

In other words, it had absolutely no effect on anyone.

So, if you are up for a film that:

a. uses very, very loud noises to ‘scare’ you (inevitably resulting in the source of the sound being some innocuous something-or-other)….

b. utilizes the lamest motion-blurring, camera-shaking, fuzzy-ghost computer graphics….

c. allows it’s performers to sleepwalk through a horrendously un-dramatic script (amongst pretty sets)….

d. has a guy with a lot of hair and the cutest little black doggie nose….

….then ‘wolfman’ is for you! Otherwise, steer the hell clear of this wolf-poop-pile of a movie.

It was the street I grew up on, like so many other children of the sixties and seventies; and, it would seem, every decade since. The Children’s Television Workshop launched Sesame Street forty years ago on the 10th of this month to a generation of kids previously raised on the standardized kid-show formats of Captain Kangaroo and Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, and it changed and advanced the way children are educated. With short, commercial-length segments, colorful cartoons and, of course, the beloved Jim Henson Muppets, Sesame Street revolutionized not only kids’ programming, but television itself. Condescending to children was nowhere to be found on the program, and the diversity of personalities and ethnicities was long overdue on television. (Mississippi banned it initially, claiming that the state “wasn’t ready” to see a mix of races presented so equally.) But the show transcended its kiddie roots especially by being the first to deal with real difficulties, like getting lost, getting to know someone with a handicap, even death itself—a segment for which the show was widely praised.

For me, it introduced me to the incredible expressiveness of puppets as characters, and how faces can be created with an economy of form. Grover and Big Bird are marvels of simple design, and the puppeteering was astoundingly polished, giving so much life and believability to these furry creations that the kids featured on the show knew them not as inanimate objects, but as people.

Its influence is impossible to measure, the characters icons of Americana, and the sweet and gentle way in which it introduced so many children to the world is a testament to the loving people involved in its creation. Happy Birthday, old friends—and thank you!

(As of 2009, Sesame Street has won over one-hundred-and-seventeen Emmys!)

The Death of Michael Jackson

The Farrah post I wrote previously was one of shock and sadness for an incandescent beauty who died too young, someone who seemed too vital to go. Now, on the same day, within hours of Fawcett’s death, pop icon Michael Jackson has died at the age of 50. There are notable similarities in the passing of these two: both shared the distinction of being—for a time, and in their own specific eras—the biggest celebrities in the world. Both were lauded for their looks and talent, and both shared a very public downward spiral. They both had a major influence on the world of popular culture, our perceptions of sex symbols, and they were both merchandised into legends.
The similarities end there, however, for the death of Michael Jackson is historic. The shockwaves of his passing have only begun, and I anticipate that the flood of mourning will be nearly overwhelming as the reality is slowly absorbed. This was no one-time star who had fallen out of the public’s (and media’s) notice. Jackson transformed the landscape of popular culture, music and entertainment with his Grammy-winning albums, sell-out concerts and astonishingly singular dance style. His childlike demeanor was made all the more fascinating by his at times very adult videos, where crotch-grabbing, innuendo and titillating dance moves all converged to produce the feel of a sexually supercharged star who could seduce any woman. And indeed, Jackson had more female admirers during his greatest heights than anyone else I was aware of in my lifetime. The 60’s had the Beatles appearing on Ed Sullivan, the 70’s had the Bee Gees and their disco-dominating soundtrack for ‘Saturday Night Fever’, but there is no doubt that Michael Jackson’s performance on ‘Motown 25: Yesterday, Today and Forever’ literally changed pop culture overnight. Moonwalking, spinning and finger-snapping his way through ‘Billie Jean’, the world stood still for just a moment as we all watched, transfixed by this version of the ‘little’ Michael from the Jackson 5. Following this up with his legendary Thriller video, and the second-biggest selling album of all time, ‘Bad’ (Thriller, of course, being the first), Michael seemed untouchable, a singular source of magic and slickness.
Years later, shortly after the release of his excellent album, ‘Dangerous’, the star was suddenly saddled with accusations of child molestation, excessive plastic surgery, and generally bizarre behavior. Previously, these claims of strangeness could be brushed off, for they were fairly innocent in nature. But with the allegations of misconduct with children, Michael’s spotless image began to tarnish. As more and more people began to come forward (almost all looking for ‘financial restitution’), he seemed to slip further and further into a state of denial and reclusiveness.
I was contacted by my friend Karen Faye, Michael’s personal makeup artist (who has been with him since making him up for the ‘Thriller’ album cover), to potentially do some masks for the ‘Ghosts’ segment of his upcoming tour in England, but things fizzled when it became clear that there wasn’t enough time to do them properly. I had a feeling then that this show was possibly going to end disastrously, but I had no idea what level of disaster was waiting the beleaguered star only a month away. It is still hard to comprehend the scope of this thing, and I have not come anywhere near facing its total impact. But I do know that the ramifications are enormous, America’s version of the Princess Diana tragedy.
Many years ago, while Michael was going through the terrible trial that would ultimately result in self-exile for a time from the United States, Karen asked if I wanted to perhaps send a sculpture to Michael. My answer was an emphatic ‘Yes!’. But I told her I wanted to do something really special for him, something that might take a good deal of time. He disappeared almost immediately after the trial to the Middle East, but not before I was able to have Karen pass on a book of fantasy art, one that contained a few images of mine in it. He graciously sent back a collection of his music and videos, with a hand-written note on the cover. I will treasure this forever, because I was—and always will be—an enormous fan of his. It is hard to put into words all that he has meant to so many, and what he may have given us in the future had he only been able to live a little longer. Michael, thank you so much—you have inspired, amazed and dazzled us all for over forty years, and you can now, finally, be at peace. You, of all people, deserve a good rest.
—–Jordu

Despite Farrah’s somewhat controversial appearances during the final decade or so of her life, it is still with great sadness and a sense of genuine shock that I write this blog about her death at 62. An icon of beauty and sophistication in the mid-70’s, Farrah went on to prove after her ‘Angel’ days that she was a serious actress, just one that had been gifted with extraordinary beauty. Her performances in ‘The Burning Bed’, ‘Extremities’ and ‘The Apostle’ all stand out as moving depictions of women battling their own demons, as well as those outside themselves. But, nonetheless, it is her devastating looks that will be cemented forever in this kid of the 70’s mind. A tremendous crush was formed the first time I saw her on ‘Charlie’s Angel’s’, and I still remember the wet bathing suit poster that my cousin had of her hanging in his bedroom. He was one of 12 million people to have the image plastered on his wall, making this one of the biggest-selling posters in history. According to news reports, Farrah battled fiercely with cancer for the last several years of her life, finally succumbing at 9:30 this morning at Santa Monica Hospital.

Thank you for the memories, lovely lady; you will always be an angel.

—J

Warning:
This blog is way off-topic from monsters, creatures, robots, genetic mutations and Frankensteins. It is about film, though. Read on if you care to know any of my thoughts outside of making rubber junk.

Last night I saw a film on DVD. I am not 100% sure why I rented it; I guess the blurb on the back of the DVD clamshell case looked vaguely interesting. The film was entitled “Havoc”, and starred nobody’s favorite actress, Anne Hathaway. It concerned itself essentially with a group of spoiled, very wealthy teens from Pacific Palisades (an affluent community on the California Coast situated between Brentwood and Malibu), all of whom are obsessed with the ‘gangsta’ lifestyle. They talk, dance–occasionally rap (!)– in the style of Black and Latino urban gangs, despite the fact that none of them have ever really been exposed to the realities of this life. So for starters, you are already irked by watching these white folks adopt a lifestyle they know nothing about—especially when they try to act ‘tough’. It’s just obnoxious. Ms. Hathaway, horrendously miscast and looking like a complete idiot, tries to convince the audience that she really can s-t-r-e-t-c-h as an actress. Other than the numerous sex scenes in the film, a few of which feature the overrated assets of Hathaway and various other actresses, Hathaway doesn’t seem to be able to stretch at all. Watching her attempt to be black must rank as some of the most ridiculous, embarrassing and overall offensive filmmaking I have seen; dare I say, it even trumps Anthony Hopkins trying to convince audiences that he actually is black in the total piece of shit, “The Human Stain”. That gem also featured Nicole Kidman attempting to make us believe she’s a janitor. The preceding is not a misprint—I walked out of this piece of garbage faster than I walked out of “Bonfire of the Vanities”, and I only gave that one twenty minutes.

But back to the point: the utter travesty that is “Havoc”. Hathaway and ‘crew’ decide one night to go down to East L.A. and ‘get all up in da grill’ of some genuine Latino gangster types. The very idea that snooty, rich white chicks would even deign to look upon the urban blight of Los Angeles is absurd—but when you watch them actually become immersed in this culture and are accepted into it….well, you are making a fantasy picture more tripped out than Oz on acid. Of course, things end up going too far, and the girls get all freaked out by the filthy brown people, and then call the cops on them. So, just to clarify: They think they are tigers. They decide to go to the jungle and live amongst real tigers. Real tigers end up being dangerous and they bite and stuff. The fake tigers retreat to ‘civilization’, hire poachers, and send them out to kill all the real tigers. Who’s the victim? Who do you feel sorry for in that not-all-that-simplified clarification of this grotesque story? I’ll bet you don’t feel too bad for the fake tigers, do you? I sure didn’t.

Why, you may ask, am I writing this blog about such a stupid and worthless piece of trash? Because I was deeply offended by it. So offended, in fact, that I am contemplating writing the producers of this thing and laying into them. Where was the conscience of these filmmakers? Did they really expect us to sympathize with the Great White Hope who co-opts, then infiltrates something they can’t handle, and then wants to dispose of it once they realize it is beyond their abilities to control? What a disgusting message.

Now, this thing was released directly to video, and I’ll bet I know why, or at least this is what I’d like to think; Anne Hathaway’s ‘people’, upon viewing it, decided it might be best to keep it….quiet.
A. She’s topless in it—several times.
B. The subject matter and storyline are astonishingly vulgar and offensive and,
C. It reveals that she is a dreadfully bad actress, at least when she tries to play anything other than a dopey Disney princess.

Now of course, I believe in freedom of speech, and the rights of an artist to create whatever they think they need to. But there is, in my opinion, a certain responsibility in creating. A responsibility to present a well-thought-out piece of work that can inform, sometimes enrage, but always have integrity, and an understanding of the world around you. Only through this can one expect to make anything worthwhile, enduring and meaningful.

I have seen many films that have made me angry—David Mamet’s brilliant “Oleanna” comes to mind—but this is something else entirely to me; this ‘film’ is saying that you can adopt any little lifestyle you want, but that you can and should protect yourself against the realities of that life—basically, being a complete hypocrite is just fine, especially if you are rich—and white. I disrespectfully disagree. The thoughtless and arrogant attitude that this film presents is nothing short of a bold statement in favor of classism, racism and the rape of cultural ideologies. I can’t think of anything more irresponsible, appalling or shameful.