Posts Tagged oh god no
They’re All Cars! All Cars!
Until recently, Cars was the only Pixar feature I’d never seen. I love almost all their films unreservedly but there was something about Cars’ imagery that unsettled me. I remember having this conversation with a friend, years ago:
“They’re talking cars, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And people watch them race?”
“The spectators are cars, too.”
“What about, like, the mechanics?”
“They’re also cars.”
“But what about…”
“THEY’RE ALL CARS! ALL CARS!”
Where do these cars come from? Are they built, or are they birthed? I’m not the first to struggle with a universe entirely populated with sentient cars. (Okay – and some trains, boats, and helicopters too.) I found this hypothetical cutaway image of Lightning McQueen, guessing at the biology that could be sitting, squelching, inside his metal frame.
I find that to be the more comforting alternative, frankly. When I was visited by the Thirsty Mayor about halfway through the frenetic Cars 2, my vague suspicion of the franchise snapped into focus.
You see, Lightning McQueen is a slick racing car, without even headlights to spoil his smooth lines. But what about Mater, his dim-witted tow truck best friend? Unlike McQueen, Mater clearly has doors.
Doors.
They never seem to open, but they’re there. Are they vestigial remnants of a time before these cars came to life? Before their engines erupted with teeth and gums and flopping tongues? Perhaps there was even a moment of truce – a time when these cars could think and talk and dream, but were still happy to let their drivers inside.
Or maybe it happened in an instant. A signal was broadcast from aerial to aerial. The doors locked. The side windows fogged to grey. The windshields eclipsed with enormous cartoon eyes. From that point forward all cars would drive themselves, and the human skeletons still belted into their seats swallowed down like bad memories.
Blue Valentine: jmag review
Here’s my review of Blue Valentine from the latest issue of triple j magazine. You want to know how shattered I was by this film? I didn’t cry while I was watching it. That’d be too easy. Almost any film can make me cry if the music swells just right. After Blue Valentine, though, I only started crying afterwards. In public.
BLUE VALENTINE
Directed by: Derek Cianfrance
Starring: Ryan Gosling, Michelle Williams
Be warned: Blue Valentine will make you want set fire to the concept of love and bury its ashes where they’ll never be found.
Dean (Ryan Gosling) and Cindy (Michelle Williams) are a young married couple struggling to keep their relationship from falling apart. These painful sequences are intercut with scenes of them first falling in love, six years earlier.
It sounds sappy, I know, but Blue Valentine makes magic by picking the exact perfect moments to cut back and forth. It also has some of the best sex scenes in years. I don’t mean the most arousing – jeez, settle down, perverts! I mean sex scenes that show you things about who the characters really are and what they really feel.
It’s a testament to Gosling and Williams’ acting that I believed every second they’re on screen. It’s always weird to praise actors for ‘honest’ performances. They’re acting! They’re pretending to be people they’re not! Blue Valentine felt true enough, though, to successfully break my heart.
Other reviews this month: Rare Exports and Somewhere in cinemas; Me and Orson Welles and Breaking Bad season three on DVD.
Issue #46 on sale now.
Scrubbing Tombstones With A Toothbrush
I love high-concept screenplays. When I heard the storyline for the movie Stealth – “an artificially intelligent fighter jet is struck by lightning and turns evil!” – I swear I nearly burst into applause. I’m not necessarily defending the films themselves; just the ludicrous poetry of the idea that drives them.
High concepts can quickly curdle, though. The movie blog I Watch Stuff crystallised this for me while discussing the poster for the latest Jackie Chan film Spy Next Door. The headline: “Actual Spy Next Door Poster Marks End of Spoof Movie Posters”. Take a look. It’s hard to argue the point.
For me, it’s the recent Bruckheimer blockbuster G-Force that hurts. A squad of celebrity-voiced, crime-fighting, wise-cracking 3D animated guinea pigs? When the worldwide landslide of promotion began, I thought: “You’ve got to be kidding.” Actually kidding, I mean – because G-Force looks exactly like one of those fake movies that act as an easy in-joke inside real movies.
The clip made available of the fake sitcom “Yo Teach!” was perhaps the single best thing about Judd Apatow’s recent (and disappointing) Funny People. It’s freakishly plausible. The script, the set, the laughter. You could drop it onto prime time TV and no one would notice. The same goes for the “MILF Island” clips featured on Tina Fey’s 30 Rock. It barely even functioned as a joke; more an only-minutes-away-at-best Reality TV prophecy.
(In both these cases, you can easily argue that the fake shows are cultural artefacts that are far more likely to exist in the real world than the actual shows that spawned them.)
This confusing play of reality-versus-parody leaves me suspicious of satire. Consider how studies seem to show that the reason Stephen Colbert is beloved by all sides of the political spectrum is that his refusal to break character makes him unpindownable. He’s a Rorschach blot in a classy suit.
I keep thinking of a quote from Steve Aylett’s faux-biography of science fiction writer Jeff Lint. In it, he writes that “satire was like scrubbing tombstones with a toothbrush, but honourable nevertheless.” Sometimes it’s impossible to tell whose tombstone Colbert’s cleaning.
And if Colbert’s fanbase can leave me feeling bewildered, something like G-Force mostly just leaves me feeling old. (You kids and your confusingly parody-tinged entertainment! Turn that music down!)
Old, that is, until I think back to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. It began as a parody of Frank Miller’s Ronin, but its stars became bona fide pop-culture heroes. When the Adolescent Radioactive Black Belt Hamsters inevitably appeared on comic book shelves soon after, I don’t remember batting an eyelid – despite the logic puzzle of parody squared staring back at me.
So to all the wise-cracking, gun-toting, celebrity-voiced guinea pigs out there? I may not understand you, but I salute you nonetheless. Just make sure you’re not struck by lightning.
The Obsessional Horror of M&M’s World
F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote the following in 1934′s Tender Is The Night:
“After lunch they were both overwhelmed by the sudden flatness that comes over American travellers in quiet foreign places. No stimuli worked upon them, no voices called them from without, no fragments of their own thoughts came suddenly from the minds of others, and missing the clamor of the Empire they felt that life was not continuing there.”
To experience the absolute reverse of this, however, you need to abandon all hope and travel to M&M’s World in Times Square.
I’m no stranger to blaring corporate overdrive. I survived the Coke Museum in Atlanta, even though the staff’s ID badges bear not just their name, but their favourite flavour. Even though when the Polar Bear mascot was on break I was told he’d be back after “grabbing a Coke”. Even though their 4D propaganda film featured a hoverboarding scientist who discovered the secret to Coke’s success is – yes, yes, of course – “you”.
M&M’s World is a different beast. It’s not an exercise in legend-building and carefully constructed flag-waving like the Coke Museum. It doesn’t seem to care much about chocolate, or taste, or any other aspect of the actual candy. Here’s the best way to describe it:
Imagine a man having the worst day of his life. Death, divorce, or some combination of the two. He maybe eats an M&M that he finds rattling around the margins of the kitchen table, and he notices that the bright colour is the one spot of optimism on this awful, godforsaken day. The next afternoon, he eats a whole packet of M&M’s, ignoring the reheatable food provided by well-meaning friends. They’re worried his grief will cause him to waste away to nothing. They don’t know about the M&M’s. After a few more days, just seeing the chocolate’s logo lifts his spirits. Everything else in his house makes him miserable with reminders of what he’s lost. Not the M&M’s, though. They’re delicious.
This man lies awake at night and wonders: why can’t everything be an M&M? Wouldn’t that be a better world?
Come to New York, fight your way through Times Square, and you can buy yourself M&M’s Monopoly. M&M’s stuffed monkeys. M&M’s t-shirts, mugs, and magnets. M&M’s chessboards. M&M’s action figures, stickers, and stamps. M&M’s hand-embroidered designer jackets, selling for four figures, that you’d save for with your M&M’s moneybox.
See the yellow M&M loom over Times Square on a billboard like some ancient, Lovecraftian god. Witness the green M&M cast as some kind of misshapen, gamma-irradiated sex-symbol, pouting like Marilyn on jigsaw boxes and beach towels. Have the red M&M imprinted on a penny by one of those old-fashioned souvenir machines – because why buy something when you can cut out the middle man and have his image stamped directly onto your money?
I guess there might have been some chocolate for sale, too.